


Journals

by WaywardSpark



Series: The Soulmate Journals [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Coming Out, Developing Relationship, Diary/Journal, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Letters, M/M, Redbeard angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 34,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: On a person's sixteenth birthday, they receive a small, black, leather-bound, government-issued journal in which they can write to their soulmate.





	1. January 6th 1996

~~Dear Soulmate~~

~~To whom it may concern~~

~~To the person who is apparently meant to be the love of my life even though we’ve never met~~

Hello,

My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am your soulmate.

As you may have deduced, today is my sixteenth birthday, the day on which the majority of people receive their soulmate journals and can write to their soulmates, eventually leading to a lifetime partnership usually of a romantic nature. 

This of course is the expected result, but isn’t always the reality. In fact, a mere 70% of matches are considered successful in this sense. Divorce, infidelity, incompatibility are more common than people like to admit. A significant number of murders are committed by unsuccessful matches who would rather kill their partners than go through divorce and face the public shame of being unsuccessful, which is why I find this whole practice rather ridiculous. I believe a large number of lives could be saved if there was less public expectation of falling in love with your soulmate. In fact, if people didn’t have soulmates at all and were free to date, or not date, whoever they wanted, that would be preferable.

Although, perhaps that would mean a spike in infidelity and divorces as the number of trials and therefore failures increased, perhaps causing a rise in more crimes of passion. That would make things very interesting.

Besides, the idea of a magic diary that can magically transport your writings to a single other matching magic diary is ridiculous. Not to mention the idea that people can tell who is meant to be matched with whom, out of 7 billion options. Yes, I know the imbecilic story they'd teach us in primary school, the one with those stupid lovers who got themselves turned into trees or whatever, but as someone who takes a keen interest in science, I fail to see how it is possible. It defies logic, and I detest things are illogical. At least things that are both tedious and illogical.

Anyway, the point is, I have very low expectations of how this will turn out. I would be perfectly happy for you to ignore this journal completely and never write back to me again, or even for us to just be acquaintances. I would suggest friends, but very few people find the idea of a friendship with me appealing, so I see no reason to hope for an anomaly in that pattern. You can probably see why.

Yours sincerely,  
Sherlock Holmes.


	2. April 10th 1996

Dear Sherlock

Sorry I took so long responding. I was sort of busy being younger than sixteen and all that.

I have to say I laughed a little bit reading your message. Not at you. Not like that. It’s just that I’ve imagined since I was a kid what my first interaction with my soulmate would be like and murders, divorce rates and the scientific impossibility of the soulmate journal certainly never came up. But then again I lack imagination. It's the main reason I'm not very good at English in school, so pray for me when I do my exams this year.

I can see why most people would be put off by your cynicism and interest in murder, but honestly I’m just intrigued. Why are you so interested in crime? Do you want to be a police officer when you’re older? 

Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m John Watson. 

I agree that the story is a bit stupid. I think it’s just their way of saying that no one really knows how it works. Except maybe a secret society that hides in caves and kills anyone who dares to try and discover the secret science behind soulmates. Who knows.

I like science too, by the way. Well biology mostly. I sort of have to if I’m going to become a doctor. And chemistry is good too. Not physics. Physics can go fuck itself as far as I’m concerned. 

In terms of what you said about what you expect from this, I can’t say I have particularly high expectations myself. I can’t remember a time where my parents seemed happy with their matches, although maybe that’s more to do with things that have happened than clashing personalities. But anyway, I’m happy for this to go wherever - acquaintances, friends, or otherwise. 

Write back soon. And maybe tell me a bit about yourself? There must be more to you than depressing statistics, murders and science. 

John. 

P.S This probably seems like a stupid question but is Sherlock a girl’s or a boy’s name? I’ve never met a Sherlock before. I don’t mind either way.


	3. April 14th 1996

Dear John

I’m not a person who can be surprised easily. Do not think I’m bragging or exaggerating when I say I have highly above average intelligence and I can predict people’s actions as easily as I can read most other things about people, from simple observation of patterns. But I have to say, your response was unexpected. 

I suppose, in retrospect, I didn’t factor in the fact that we’re writing to each other and that we haven’t actually met in real life. It’s very easy to distance yourself from the person on the other side of the journal when you’re reading their words in your own voice. People I know in real life at best tolerate me, normally for the sake of copying my work in lessons. Besides, I haven’t deduced you properly yet, as I haven’t seen you in person, and that generally seems to put people off. Something about ‘respecting privacy’ and ‘minding your own business’. It’s not my fault everyone is incredibly obvious. 

I’m not particularly good at deducing things from a person’s writing yet, a fact my elder brother Mycroft is endlessly smug about. His intelligence is, I have to admit, above mine, and he seems to think that gives him a right to act like an annoying third parent. All I can tell so far is that your father was away for the majority of your childhood on business and during his absence your parents grew apart. Or maybe his behaviour changed. Perhaps he became a drinker. I can also tell that you’re reasonably intelligent, have a decent sense of humour, and you’ve probably had several girlfriends, and maybe a boyfriend, in your adolescence. Nothing long term, as I suppose you’re too dedicated to your studies and your parents’ example may have put you off commitment. 

I agree with your sentiment on physics. I see no purpose to knowing why and how things fall or if the earth goes around the sun or not. As soon as exams are over, I’m deleting it. I would do so now but the university course I’m interested in taking requires decent grades in all sciences. Chemistry is my favourite of the sciences. It is incredibly useful and the experiments are somewhat enjoyable. In fact, that’s what I want to study at university. 

I’m afraid the description murder, science, and depressing statistics covers most of my personality. However, you said you wanted to know about me, so I’ll indulge you. Sherlock is in fact a boy’s name, I only have one sibling whom I previously mentioned, I don’t want to work for the police but I’m not entirely sure what I will do with my life once my education ends, I play the violin and I have a dog. I’m fairly sure that covers the basics. If for some reason you want to know more feel free to ask questions. 

If you could write back soon confirming my deductions that would be appreciated. I would also like it if you told me more about yourself as well. Writing to you does provide a decent distraction from boredom.

Sherlock


	4. April 15th 1996

Dear Sherlock 

For all your 'above average intelligence' you can be a bit thick. There's another important factor you didn't take into account, and it's that I'm your soulmate. I was matched with you for a reason. It's very unlikely anything you can do will put me off. And it's not because we haven't actually met or because I'm reading your letters in my own voice or whatever. It's because I genuinely like you. You're interesting and likeable and honestly I'd like to punch the people who dared tell you otherwise. I'm guessing that's the reason you can't seem to believe me. 

Other than that, above average intelligence seems a pretty accurate description to say the least. I don't know how you worked all that out and honestly I'm curious to know how. That was amazing. I can't imagine what your more intelligent older brother must be like or what he would be able to see about me. 

Go easy on your older brother though. Us older siblings have a lot of shit to deal with and we've been sort of forced into the older brother/third parent role. He probably got a lot of 'you need to set a good example' and 'you're too old to be *insert perfectly acceptable behaviour here that the younger sibling would totally get away with at the same age*' over the years. I know this because I have a younger sister called Harry, but you could probably already tell that, smart thing like you.

Your deductions were completely correct. My dad was actually in the army, but was suspended permanently due to his alcohol addiction interfering with his work, so obviously that hasn't helped the whole situation with my parents. I'm not sure how much authority I have to confirm the intelligence and sense of humour thing, but I have had a couple of girlfriends. No boyfriends yet. My school is pretty small so there aren't many guys here who swing my way, at least none who are out. What about you? Have you had any girlfriends or boyfriends? 

I keep looking back at what I wrote to see if can spot what made you deduce all that about me but honestly I'm flummoxed. You will tell me right? 

In terms of information about myself you somehow haven't already worked out, there's not much to say. I played the clarinet at one point but gave up a couple of years ago to make time for rugby. I think I can still play a few bars of 'in the hall of the mountain king' but honestly don't get your hopes up. I don't have any pets but I'd like a dog someday. I live in North London. Do you live nearby? It would be convenient if you did. 

I hope you don't mind me asking, but what do you look like? Is that a creepy question? It seems creepy. Sorry. I just want to put a face to a name. For the record, I'm short (5'7. My own sister is taller than me) and I have sort of dirty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. It would be easier if these journals came with a fax machine to send you a picture rather than making me describe myself like when we'd study French in year 7. I'll see if I can ask those magic lovers-turned-trees to upgrade. 

Write back soon. I hope I didn't overwhelm you with questions.

John.


	5. April 17th 1996

Dear John, 

Though I appreciate the thought, I'd rather you didn't get arrested for punching all my classmates and teachers and extended family in succession. 

It would seem obvious if I was to explain the reasoning behind my deductions. A magician never reveals their tricks for a reason, as the audience would find it incredibly simple and unimpressive, and ~~I fear~~ it's a possibility the same would apply for you. But then again, you seem like someone who is unusually tolerant and easily impressed, so I may as well. 

Your handwriting, though definitely masculine, has some feminine slants and loops - don't take offence by this - suggesting that your childhood was mostly female dominated at home while you were learning to write and this shows that your father was absent during your childhood. I say business reasons as you implied that your parents aren't divorced and their marital problems are too recent for the absence to be to do with a temporary split. Besides, a matched couple who have split wouldn't have any qualms about divorcing. The drinking was a shot in the dark based on probability. 

The rest regarding your personality is just an honest conclusion based on your letters and the fact I find you tolerable. I was amused by your comment on physics. Your intelligence, kindness despite my cynical and standoffish attitude, good sense of humour, all made me believe that at least someone liked you enough to want to go out with you. Girlfriend seemed more likely than boyfriend, but your comment about not minding my gender made me assume that you at least have bisexual tendencies and therefore you could have had a boyfriend at some point. Which you haven't apparently. Still, I didn't want to rule out the possibility.

It's all child's play really. 

Your questions aren't overwhelming in the slightest. No, I don't have a girlfriend or boyfriend and I've never had one. Nor do I need one, so I don't require your pity. I'm surprised you didn't already guess this, as I've already made my general social life, or lack thereof, quite clear. 

I live in Sussex, so only a couple of hours away. Much less inconvenient than if your soulmate was living in France or America, I'd imagine. 

Speaking of where we live, I've taken the liberty of sending a picture of myself to your address (which I found by asking my brother. He works in the government and has access to a lot of useful information. There were too many potential Watsons living in London for me to use any other means). I decided it was somewhat easier than giving a vague, pointless description. You want a face to a name, and I'm sure both of us would rather you had an accurate image. You should receive it in a few days. If you wish to reciprocate with a picture of yourself, I won't mind.

Sherlock


	6. April 20th 1996

"Hello?"

"Hello, sorry to bother you, but is there a Sherlock Holmes there?" 

"Speaking."

"What? Oh, wow. Hello."

"Who is this?"

"It's John. John Watson?"

"Oh. Oh! Hello, John."

"Hi. I - I found your number in the phone book. And I thought I could... So yeah. Here I am."

"If you wanted my phone number you could have asked."

"Pfft. Speak for yourself."

"What? Oh, right. That."

"Little bit not good there, Sherlock. You could have just asked, instead of asking your brother."

"...Apologies."

"No, no, it's fine. Just next time, if you want to know something, you can just ask."

"Well, you too. It would have been easier for you to ask than to try all eleven numbers in the phone book that correspond to a Holmes living in Sussex."

"Yeah, I know. This is the sixth number I tried. But I suppose we're even now, with our unnecessary, mildly stalker-ish behaviour."

"I suppose we are."

"I got your picture, by the way."

"Okay."

"It's a nice picture. You're very... photogenic."

"Oh. Thank you."

"You're not smiling though. In the picture."

"I didn't exactly have a reason to smile at the time. It was my cousin's wedding, I was surrounded by idiotic and irritating family members who all wanted to ask about you - you hadn't written back at the time - and I was forced to wear a tie."

"Not a big fan of ties, then?"

"No. They're stifling."

"Shame. You look good in ties."

"..."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, I'm here. Sorry. Thank you." 

"You're welcome."

"You have a nice voice."

"You what?"

"I'm told it's customary for a compliment to be returned with another compliment of a similar nature. As I don't really know what you look like, I can't compliment you on your looks, so voice it is."

"It's just a normal voice, hardly worth complimenting."

"Could be worse. My great aunt Lillian has a terribly shrill voice. A boy in my year insists on dropping his T's and has a voice like a Neanderthal. But then again, that's consistent with his personality." 

"So I'm somewhere between shrill, posh female and stupid caveman?"

"...yes. On the nicer part of the spectrum." 

"Thanks, I guess."

"Anytime." 

"While we're on the subject of compliments...that last letter, where you explained how you knew all that about me."

"Yes?"

"Christ, that was amazing. I can't believe you saw all that."

"So you don't find my deductive powers simple and unimpressive?"

"God, no. Pretty much the opposite, actually."

"..."

"You still there?"

"Yes. I'm just thinking...I owe you a lot of compliments now."

"You don't have to. Besides, you've already called me intelligent and tolerable and kind and funny. We're even in that respect now."

"Shame. I had so much more material for compliments."

"Well, don't let me hold you back by any means. What are they?"

"Firstly, I'm touched you would take the time to call six of eleven different numbers just to find mine. You're very resilient."

"Stubborn seems more like it, but thank you." 

"You're generous with your compliments, if slightly delusional."

"Gosh, you know just what to say to make a guy feel special." 

"And you're the first person I've ever liked enough to call you a friend."

"Oh."

"Wait, did I do something wrong?"

"No you didn't. Wow. I'm just...touched, I guess."

"So we are friends?"

"I'd say we are, yeah."

"Okay. Good."

"Am I really your first friend?"

"Since pre-school. Yes."

"Why? You're nice enough, when you're not stalking people or deducing scandalous parts of other people's lives."

"I'm sure many outcasts are 'nice enough'. Doesn't mean they lose the label at any point."

"You're different, that's all. Clever. It's not a bad thing."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes. You don't have to keep reassuring me. I'm not a child. I don't need pity."

"I know. Sorry. I didn't mean to come across as patronising or anything."

"Its okay - Oh, for god's sake. I have to go soon. My mother says tea is ready."

"Okay. So, write to you later?"

"Or call."

"Yeah, or that. At least, if my mum remembers to pay the phone bill." 

"I hope she does. It's nice talking to you."

"Yeah, you too."

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Oh, and keep checking your mail. Okay?"

"Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh look at that variety in writing style isn't that exciting.
> 
> Thanks so much everyone for all the positive feedback!


	7. April 24th 1996

Dear John

Thank you for sending me the photo of you. I have to admit, you are very 'photogenic' too, even in a mud-caked, grass stained rugby outfit. There. Now I've returned your compliment appropriately. 

Actually, the photo also offers me a second benefit of being able to deduce you properly, even if the information is probably now outdated. For starters, the photo was taken six months ago at the end of your first winning game as rugby captain, though you've been a member of the team for nearly a year before becoming captain. During that game you injured yourself no less than three times, ending up with a calf muscle injury that you somehow managed to ignore for the rest of the game, a bruised forehead and a chipped tooth. You had a girlfriend at the time, but I assume she must have broken up with you by now. Most likely to do with the guilt people have for talking to their soulmates at the same time as dating someone else, even if the soulmates aren't actually together romantically.

(For the record, I am not one of those people. We are not romantically entangled so I have no reason to have a say in your personal life.)

I know you're going to ask how I know all this, so I'll save you the time: a young child is dressed as a skeleton in the background in the (slightly early) Halloween spirit - a younger sibling of a teammate of yours - so that shows how old the photo is. Your rugby outfit seems old and marginally too tight, showing you bought them before a growth spurt (not that you've had many of those, clearly.) You're standing at an angle and leaning your weight on the railing, the bruise is fairly obvious, and your smile, though genuine, looks uncomfortable, as you're trying to hide your chipped tooth out of self consciousness. In terms of the girlfriend, you have faint traces of lipstick on you in the picture. 

It is rather curious you chose this photograph of all things. But I suppose you may not get much opportunity to be photographed. And you're proud of your rugby achievements, I'd imagine. I've never been one for sports so I wouldn't know.

Thank you for calling the other day. enjoyed talking to you and I look forward to talking more at some point. However, with exams less than a month away I find it increasingly difficult to find time to write to you, let alone come up with something to say. Very little is happening in my life right now, other than constant reminders from parents and teachers to revise, which I doubt you want to know about. I feel like I'm drowning in flash cards and past papers and highlighters. My parents insist on flinging these things at me no matter how many times I tell them that they're not needed, that it's all in my head already and it doesn't matter anyway as I'm deleting all of it as soon as I can. 

However, exam season does have a bonus, and that is getting to smugly watch all the idiots I've known and loathed since primary school have breakdowns and become stressed when their tiny minds can't comprehend what an endothermic reaction is, or how to solve a quadratic equation. It's rather relaxing to watch other people suffer due to their own stupidity, don't you think?

Regards, 

Your friend Sherlock.


	8. April 27th 1996

Dear Sherlock 

Thanks for the compliment I guess. I know it's not the most flattering photo of me, but it's the most recent one I've got. Everything else seemed outdated and would give the impression your soulmate looks like a short, spotty fourteen year old. 

Those deductions are brilliant as usual, and pretty much all correct. It was actually the first tournament the team ever won, and I happened to be captain at the time. It was a pretty brutal game, the finals, which is how I got so injured. The other team had a bit of a reputation for that. Another one of my friends ended up with a broken collarbone, and someone else twisted his knee. Still, somehow, out of sheer dumb luck I guess, we won. But you're probably not interested in knowing rugby tactics. 

Sarah broke up with me two months ago, a few weeks after she and her soulmate started writing to each other. It's amazing how quickly they seemed to become attached to each other, but I guess that's a given with successfully matched soulmates. Don't worry, I'm not exactly heartbroken over it. We're good friends now.

By the way, those idiots sitting in class stressing about their exams because they spent the rest of the year procrastinating and doing sports instead of revising? I am one of those idiots right now. I definitely get what you mean about drowning in revision materials, except you can cope with it by ignoring it. I can't imagine what it must be like to know for a fact you'll do well in everything and not be worried about it. I mean, I think I'll do okay. Hopefully. I haven't done too bad so far in school. But if seeing idiots having breakdowns makes you feel better, I could always send a picture of myself sobbing into a pile of books and papers.

You've mentioned 'deleting' a couple of times now. Should I know what that means? Or am I an idiot who lives under a rock? 

Write back when you can. Don't feel under pressure to write about anything interesting. You could talk to me about the texture of different types of cotton fibres and I'd still absorb every word and be ready with praise and questions. I like seeing that you've written to me at all. It's a little relieving to know you haven't dismissed the idea of writing to your soulmate entirely yet. For all your cynicism about the whole journal thing when you first wrote to me, we're getting on quite well, aren't we?

Your friend, John

P.S. Though you giving me permission to go out with other people is appreciated, it's probably not necessary. Most people are too busy with their own soulmates or schoolwork to want to start going out with anyone at the moment. But the same applies to you. You can go out with people if you want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say thanks for all your comments. Even if I don't reply I really appreciate them.


	9. May 1st 1996

Dear John

You really needn't worry about giving me permission - rather a waste of ink I think. In case you have somehow already forgotten, not many people like me, let alone are attracted to me. And don't do your old but 'I like you! you're a nice person on the inside!' et cetera, et cetera. It's a basic, indisputable fact. You're the exception that proves the rule apparently. 

Last weekend I went to visit my great aunt and. It was truly awful. As one of the younger cousins, I'm constantly given unwanted attention, bombarded with questions about school and whether I've made any friends yet. She was asking me constantly about you. And kept referring to you as 'she' even when I corrected her. She may still be in denial that she could possibly have a gay great nephew (even though I did tell her a year ago.) Oh, looking back, I realise I neglected to mention this, only that I've never had a boyfriend or girlfriend. I hear that it's important to tell friends these things, but I don't know why. Is it important? You told me (after I deduced it) that you're bisexual, so maybe it is. 

My family also can't seem to comprehend the idea that after three weeks of correspondence we're not romantically involved. They're incredibly conservative and draining to hang around. I can't wait two years to leave them for uni. Maybe if I could convince my school to let me do my a-levels early... No, they'd already refused to let me do my GCSEs early. But then again, that was on account of me nearly blowing up a chemistry lab a couple of weeks earlier. Apparently a slight miscalculation in a simple experiment is that worthy of punishment. Odd. But it's now been two years since any chemical accident at school, so maybe they will agree. 

Anyway, one notable event happened which made the whole thing slightly tolerable. My great aunt lives in a small village in the middle of nowhere, so you'd think that on the rare occasion crime happens it would be easy to find the culprit, right? Nope. The local police there are so imbecilic they can't find a simple burglar. They use excuses like 'she's too nice to rob people! He always turns up to church, no one that pious would dare to steal things!' So I did the decent thing and intervened. Through asking the right questions and making the correct deductions, I found out that the burglar was the local doctor who took advantage of her affair with the local rich person (every village has one) to steal from him in the dead of night to pay for her daughter's university fees. Noble motivations regardless, the village is now down a doctor and I'm now even less popular there for it. I think it's worth it for the rush of solving the puzzle, even one that only took a few hours to solve. 

Before I forget, deleting is essentially purposely forgetting things to make room for better, more useful information. Like on a computer. I'd have thought that was obvious from the context, but perhaps not.

Don't stress about exams. You're moderately intelligent I'm sure you'll do fine. And don't send me a picture of you stressing. My sadistic tendencies don't extend to people I like.

Your friend,

Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for over 1000 hits! Also sorry for the slight delay.


	10. may 2nd 1996

Dear Sherlock

God, your weekend sounds so much more interesting than mine. I don't blame that doctor to be honest. University as far as I can tell is expensive as hell. Especially in London. I can't afford a London university but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, when the time comes. So yeah, maybe I should resort to stealing from people. I'm sure you have tips on how not to get caught. Not that I think you spend your weekends stealing from people...do you?

I don't have any robberies or scandalous affairs to talk about, unfortunately. Nothing really happens to me at the moment. I mean, I met my friends at the weekend one final time before exams start this Thursday but that's it. (Although, one guy I know who's really into his history stuff did start talking about this murder hotel thing he'd learnt about that was in America in the nineteenth century at some point with secret airtight rooms with torture equipment and things. You might find that interesting. I'll ask more about it for you.)

I'd love to have been there in Sussex when you worked on the case. I wouldn't contribute anything useful probably but getting to watch the deduction thing in real life would be amazing. I could...make notes or something.

You said you didn't know what you wanted to do when you leave uni, right? Well, once you've left university and got your chemistry degree you could do that for a living, solving cases for the police when they can't do it themselves. Like what you did this weekend but getting actual money for it this time. You've clearly got a talent for it and you'll only get better if you take more cases. You could probably solve that case in half an hour at some point when you're older. I don't know what you'd call your job, though. An interfering detective? I'm sure there aren't many of those in the world Might put the police off asking you for help though. Helping detective? Nope, sounds like something off CBeebies. I'll get back to you on that name thing. 

I'm sorry, I feel like I'm rambling. I don't do well on less than seven hours of sleep and I've been sort of stressed lately. 

Write back soon. Maybe when I reply I'll have a point to what I'm saying. 

Your friend, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise some form of plot will be coming very soon.


	11. May 10th 1996

Dear Sherlock

This sounds really paranoid, I know. I probably have no reason to worry. But it's been over a week since you've replied and you normally only take a few days. I know you're probably busy but I just want to make sure you're okay and coping with exams alright. Write back soon? 

Your friend, John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much longer chapter next


	12. 13th May 1996

"Hello?"

"Hi, sorry, is Sherlock there?"

"Sherlock? Oh, you must be John! John Wilson?"

"Watson. Yeah, I am. Can I speak to Sherlock?"

"Of course, dear. It's nice to get to speak to you at last. Sherlock's been very secretive about you."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Don't worry, though. He doesn't talk much anyway. Always up in his room studying or doing experiment."

"He talks a lot to me. Or writes, even. Well, that is apart from recently."

"Oh. Oh, I think I know what this is."

"Really?"

"Well, he's had a pretty bad week really. His dog ran away and he hasn't been much himself while he's still missing."

"Oh god. Maybe I should ring back later..."

"No, don't be silly. He could do with someone to talk to. I'm sure he's been ever so lonely. Hold on, I'll get him - _Sherlock! John Wilson is on the phone! Yes, Watson, that's what I said. For heaven's sake Sherlock you don't need to keep studying, you've been up there for hours now! I suspect he's worried about you. He says you haven't been writing to him lately. Now be nice, Sherlock. Don't scare him off with your bad mood - "_

 _"I'm not in a bad mood -_ John?"

"Sherlock! Hi. You alright?"

"What? Yes, yes I'm fine. Perfect. Ecstatic really."

"You don't sound it."

"Well done, you can understand sarcasm. How smart of you. Gold star!"

"Your mum told me about your dog."

"Oh, for god's sake. I'm fine. Really."

"You're worried about him."

"No I'm not. He's a smart dog. He'll come back."

"Then why haven't you been replying to my letters?"

"I've been busy. Exams, remember?" 

"Yeah, I know. But I thought you memorised everything- "

"Well apparently I haven't, have I?!" 

"What?" 

"...I forgot the answer to a question last week."

"So? That happens to everyone."

"Not to me! I don't forget things accidentally! I'm not like you ordinary people where information flies over my head. Especially not chemistry. I like chemistry. I'm good at it. But then I went and fucking forgot the metal that produces a lilac flame like an idiot."

"Ok, ignoring that comment about 'us ordinary people', what happened that meant you forgot it?"

"I don't know."

"Sherlock."

"...I suppose, hypothetically, my emotional state may have been compromised by my dog's absence the day before."

"Oh. I see."

"But it won't happen again. I've been properly studying now and I won't make that same mistake again."

"It's just one question. You'll still get A stars all around."

"Not if I continue like this! As my emotional state becomes more and more compromised as time goes on I am more likely to make a mistake. In fact, I'm fairly sure I've made more mistakes since. So I'm dedicating myself to my work and not allowing any distractions. In fact, this phone call has already taken too long, I really should - "

"No! Sherlock, you need to take breaks. You've been working for hours for days on end. You're probably exhausted and hungry and just repressing everything which I'm fairly sure isn't that healthy."

"I'm not repressing - "

"When was the last time you slept?"

"...I took a two hour nap yesterday evening." 

"Yeah, Sherlock, you definitely need some sleep. Six hours at least. Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"I will be one day."

"Well, sleeping won't help. I've tried it. I don't exactly forget what's happened." 

"Again, maybe you're just repressing things too much. It might help to talk to me about it."

"Oh, goody, a therapist session."

"Shut up. Anyway. Tell me about your dog. What's his name?"

"Redbeard. I know, it's a stupid name. I went through a bit of a pirate phase when I was younger and the name stuck."-

"No, it's a nice name. Cute. How old is redbeard?"

"8 years old. So he's getting on a bit. He - he's slow. I don't know how he managed to run away. I mean, I do know, we left the gate open when we left for my aunt's house. No, I left the gate open. So it's my fault."

"No it's not. Don't blame yourself."

"I'd blame someone who did the same thing."

"Blaming yourself won't help anyone. Talk more about Redbeard. What is he like?"

"He's an Irish red settler. Hence the name. He's smart. Loyal. Loves going on adventures. We used to explore the nearby woods and fields together looking for treasure. Or we'd just talk. I'd talk, even. He can't talk. He was my only friend - John how is this helping, this has only exacerbated my emotional state."

"Trust me, it is. Wait - are you crying?"

"No."

"Clearly. Well, you're crying because those tears - if you were crying - have stress hormones in them and are releasing them. They're not a good thing to keep inside you."

"I still feel worse."

"You'll feel better later. Talk more."

"I'm worried about him. He's probably tired and hungry. I don't understand how he could have gone missing. There's only so many places he can go and he's not in any of them. What if he - what if - "

"He'll be fine. Wherever he is. And you'll do fine in your exams."

"Really?"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Don't make promises you can't keep. It's not nice."

"Neither is ignoring me for two weeks. But I can see why you did." 

"And I suppose I can see why you'd assure the safety of a dog you've never met before to me."

"Yeah. I have to go soon. Get some sleep, Sherlock."

"I know. I'll try and write soon."

"Me too."

"I haven't actually read your letters yet." 

"I didn't write much."

"I don't care."

"Good."

"Thank you for doing this."

"You're welcome. Feel better?"

"A little bit. Not yet. Give me half an hour and I probably will."

"Okay. That's good. If you want to talk again, don't hesitate. Tell me when you find Redbeard, yeah?"

"Of course."

"See you, Sherlock."

"See you, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Redbeard is just a normal dog and not in fact Victor Trevor.


	13. May 14th 1996

Dear John

Thank you for your phone call the other day. It was a comfort to have you to talk to and I did feel a bit better. My exam the following day was much less disastrous. But I digress.

The good news is that we've found Redbeard. He was in the nearby woods when my dad found him this morning, thin and filthy and scared out of his wits but thankfully alive and very happy to see everyone. He was probably chasing a squirrel when he escaped. 

But the thing is, Redbeard had to eat while he was away. He was clever enough to know to look for food, but not clever enough to know what was food and what was dangerous to eat, namely a dead battery, most likely. And it's because of that I'm here. At the vets. Waiting for the vet to come out and tell us what's going to happen to him.

It seems stupid to bring my soulmate journal to a vets. I wasn't really thinking straight when my dad said we had to go to the vets, and I suppose I knew that this book would be as close as I could get to having you actually with me. You would know what to say to make me feel better.

I read your letters, by the way. I'm sorry for leaving you worrying for so long, but thank you for thinking of me and your concern about the radio silence on my end. Your idea of me working as a detective for the police isn't too bad. Actually, it's one of the few careers I could seriously consider working out for me. Everything else seems to required far too much interaction with other people or skills I don't wish to waste time learning. To be a detective I'd just have to practice deductions a little more and have minimal interactions with witnesses and police officers. I'll have to think of the name myself though. I can't have you taking all the credit for my own job.

(Also, helping detective? I'm disappointed that could even cross your mind. I had much higher expectations of your intelligence, John Watson.)

I've been practicing my deductions now to try and pass the time and calm my thoughts. The woman across from me is having her cat neutered, has 3 children and is expecting a 4th, ate a bacon sandwich for breakfast this morning and is unhappily married. The man she keeps trying to make eye contact with is actually very much happily married, an editor at a company, and is here because he's getting the puppy he's buying for his soulmate checked up. There's a young girl whose parents are both at work concerned about her guinea pig's lack of appetite. 

 

The distraction isn't working. I still can't stop staring at the door and expecting it to open with a vet about to tell me the bad news. 

I'd like to think I'd be prepared for any form of news, accept it and move on and just know whatever happens is for the best, but I don't think I will. I could barely handle the idea of Redbeard being missing and alive, let alone him b

Vet's here talk later

Sherlock


	14. May 14th 1996 - part 2

"Hello?"

"J-John? It's me."

"Sherlock! Hey, what happened?"

"..."

"Sherlock?"

"He - he didn't - they couldn't - "

"Oh. Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"Earlier tonight. I've just got back from the vets."

"Christ. Are you okay?"

"Of course I'm not okay."

"I know, sorry. Stupid question. I just don't know what to say."

"You're meant to. That's why I called. You always know what to say." 

"I don't this time. Except that it sucks, what's happened, and I'm sorry it did."

"Well that doesn't help."

"Yeah, I guessed it wouldn't. Well, what normally helps? When you're upset."

"Redbeard."

"Oh."

"I could talk to him. Not that he'd talk back, but he seemed to understand me. If I was ill or upset when I was younger he used to come up onto my bed and sleep there with me. He was my own live teddy bear. That drools and sheds fur. God, I take back every time I complained - if I had known - "

"Hey hey hey, sshhh. You loved Redbeard and I'm sure he knew it. He had a happy life, yeah?"

"I guess."

"There's no point thinking about things that could have happened."

"No. I suppose not."

"Besides, if you need someone who can understand you, I'm here. That's about all I can do in terms of a replacement- Wait. No. Not that you'd want a replacement Redbeard. He's irreplaceable, I know. That's not - ugh. Basically I'm saying - "

"I know. Thank you...Although, I'm sure you could be a live teddy bear if you tried hard enough."

"I wouldn't drool though. And I don't shed."

"Yes you do. Dust is basically shed human skin."

"Oh. That's...nice."

"It's interesting." 

"Right... So. Do you think you'll have a funeral for Redbeard?"

"Why on earth would I do that?"

"Closure? Remembering the good parts of his life?"

"I can do that without some cult-like ritual with candles and chanting and singing or whatever."

"It doesn't have to be...cult-like. Just... gather friends and family around and say a couple of things about all the good times you had with Redbeard." 

"That's what I'm doing right now with you, isn't it?"

"Not...not exactly. People actually have to be there. For hugs and sympathetic smiles and all that."

"Well, why don't you?" 

"Why don't I what?"

"...Be here."

"Are you inviting me?"

"Don't know. Maybe. I know you'd be good at the sympathy and the hugging and the smiling. And you're my friend."

"A friend who's never met you before."

"True. I don't know, I'm not thinking straight, sorry."

"It's fine. Look, I want to be there for you. Really, I do. But - "

"I get it. Exam revision. Never met before. Don't know Redbeard personally."

"And I'd prefer for us to meet in happier circumstances. It's meant to be important, our first time meeting. Those are the stories that get passed down generations and all that."

"And you'd rather not tell your hypothetical grandchildren that you first met your soulmate at a dog funeral when he was in tears the whole time."

"That makes me sound cruel when you put it like that."

"I know you're not, though. And it's true. You never met Redbeard. The whole thing would be incredibly awkward for you. Besides, I think if we do meet - "

"When."

"When. When we meet, it would be in London. There's nothing to do here except go to Woolsworth and the local supermarket."

"The company would be worth it."

"Would it, indeed."

"Yes. But if you insist on London, then London it is."

"Good."

"In the meantime, feel free to call me whenever you want."

"I will. Thank you."

"No problem."

"Sorry I woke you up, by the way. And your entire family, probably." 

"It's fine. Try and get some sleep too. Don't you roll your eyes at me, Sherlock Holmes."

"You can't see me."

"I can tell. I'm serious. I know it won't be easy, but at least try."

"Fine."

"See you, Sherlock."

"See you."


	15. May 18th 1996

Dear John

I hope you’ve been well the past few days. I myself haven’t really been my best, to say the least. You probably knew that anyway – it hardly takes a psychologist or psychic or whoever deals with emotions to know it. 

We’re storing Redbeard’s old things in the loft – his bowl, his leash, his bed. Out of sight out of mind, isn’t that what they say? It hasn’t really been working so far but I’ll keep you posted. I’m not sure if it’s more or less unbearable than the idea of leaving Redbeard’s things out as they always have been.

I wish you had gotten the chance to meet Redbeard. He would have liked you, I know he would. He liked anyone I liked. Or gave him food. Or didn’t kick him off the sofa. Still, however low his standards, he would have liked you and you would have liked him too. 

But there’s been a couple of uplifting things to mention. Exams have been going well. It’s nice to know that everyone else did so much worse than me in most exams, and I’m probably not as ashamed as I should be when I say how smug I feel overhearing people’s conversations afterwards about the questions and thinking to myself 'wrong!'

Also, my morale has been somewhat boosted by what you said on our last phone call. The bit about ‘when’ we’ll meet, that is. I hope it’s not too presumptuous to say, but I would like us to meet soon. After exams are finished, preferably, but I am definitely not opposed to sooner. 

It seems ridiculous to want to meet after only 12 letters and 3 phone calls. In a way, I barely know you. Not properly. I don’t know your characteristics or what your extended family is like or your favourite food or what clothes you normally wear (I still have your photo of you in your rugby clothes, but somehow I don’t think you wear that on a regular basis). You don’t really know those things about me either. But then again, these are things you’re supposed to learn when you meet them. And I think I know enough to know I like you and the meeting won’t end in uncomfortable silence or one of us storming off after being insulted by the other. Besides, imagine how much more practical it will be to have conversations face to face instead of waiting for the other person to reply in these journals or using the landline to call each other (I do have a mobile phone, but Mummy confiscated it off me after I tested its durability with different chemicals. It's surprisingly tough, in case you were wondering.)

I hope you’ve been well. It’s been a while since I last heard about what’s been happening in your life, so when you reply please make it about that. Make it interesting. Your letters are always a suitable distraction from everything else.

Your friend, 

Sherlock


	16. May 19th 1996

Dear Sherlock 

I can't imagine what you're going through right now, but I'm glad you're feeling at least a little bit better. Storing Redbeard's things away can't be a particularly pleasant experience. I don't know whether you will find it better to leave them out or not, but it's up to you. Is it the right time to do that? I mean, it's only been five days and you probably don't want to rush the whole moving on thing. But then again, I've never had a dog, so I wouldn't know if it was too soon. 

I would have loved to have met Redbeard too. He would have loved me, definitely. I'm a sucker for sharing food and the sofa with cute dogs. And I know he was cute, because you'd probably never pick an ugly dog. Could you send a picture of him so I can confirm my theory? If you were in the picture too that would be a bonus. Especially if you're actually smiling in this one.

I've been alright, myself. Aside from the fact I broke my collarbone in rugby last week. Yeah, I forgot to mention that, sorry. Someone tackled me and I fell at a weird angle, somehow breaking it. Surprisingly, it wasn't that painful but that was probably the adrenaline or the shock. It now hurts like hell whenever I so much as move. So now I'm stuck at home, bored as hell, without rugby practices or matches to entertain me with. You can probably relate to that. By the way, I know you like science and have a more hands on approach to learning, so I've sent you a copy of my x ray. See what you can deduce from it. I now have my right arm stuck in a cast but at least I'm left handed, so I can still do my exams. Or is that a bad thing? 

In terms of meeting, I'd really love that too. I'd prefer sooner rather than later too, but it'll depend on a lot of things. It's not surprising at all that you want to meet so soon, because I do too. It doesn't matter if you don't know what my favourite food is (curry) or what clothes I normally wear (plaid shirts and jumpers with jeans) or much else. We'll find that out in our own good time. Besides, some people meet within two weeks of talking to each other. We're fairly slow compared to some. 

I look forward to hearing from you again. If you want to talk about dates you're free to meet, then I'd be happy to hear some. If you want to save it until later, when we're less busy with fixed collarbones and not in mourning, that's fine too. 

Your friend,

John.


	17. May 20th 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BTW I've gone back to the last chapter to make some typo corrections (and there were some pretty appalling ones. Half an entire sentence was missing before I'd moved on randomly to the next one). If you spot a mistake or typo, please feel free to correct me.

Dear John,

What?! How could you forget to tell me your collarbone was broken?! That is incredibly significant information! If I had known you were in that much pain...Well, I suppose there's not much point in thinking that now. Still, shame on you, John Watson. I hope you update me on your injuries properly from now on.

Thank you for sending your x ray, though. It was incredibly fascinating and helpful so I could practice my deductions. I imagine that if I do take up a career as a consulting detective - that is the name I have given it. Much better than 'helping detective', don't you think? - I'd have to examine all kinds of injuries. In terms of what I could deduce about you:

The collarbone was not completely fractured, meaning that the person who knocked you over couldn't have been that much stronger than you. He was taller than you -but then again, who isn't. Judging by the angle of the break, you were holding the ball in your right hand, which suggests you are somewhat ambidextrous in regards to some sports. You were running at full speed, gaining momentum, until you collided with the other played and he knocked you backwards, where you landed on the ground at an awkward angle. Had there been a complete fracture, your collarbone would have most likely been protruding through your skin. Instead, you now have a funny lump and a bit of bruising. Dull. Still, I hope you get better soon. Take pain medication, don't do anything stupid that could lead to further harm, and don't forget to wear your sling. 

I want to meet as soon as possible, really. I don't mind if your collar bone's broken. I wouldn't mind if your leg was broken and I had to slow down to a snail's pace for you to catch up. However, waiting until I am better emotionally, and you won't spend the entire time stressing about Chemistry and Biology and Maths or whatever is a good idea. I'd prefer for us to be there as friends, not you as my therapist and me as your private tutor. Exams end for me on the 15th of June. If you want to meet the weekend afterwards, I'd be happy to. I suppose you'd want to spend the day after your exam celebrating with family or having parties with friends to celebrate? Again, dull. My mother will be insisting on gathering around the extended family to show off how clever I am and how much potential I have. It's almost enough to make me want to fail on purpose just to embarrass the family.

I have sent a photo from a couple of years ago of me and Redbeard. There are few pictures of me where I look like I enjoy having a camera shoved in my face, but I'm sure this will do. It's not from a special occasion or anything - my mother insists on taking pictures at random times. But I think it was a good day. Just us at the park, me throwing tennis balls for him to catch, and him going in the complete opposite direction to greet a nearby labrador. 

Don't worry about me 'moving on' too quickly. We're an efficient family, so it was only natural to think about putting things away within the week. I'll be fine soon enough. At least, I hope so.

Your friend,

Sherlock


	18. May 21 1996

Dear Sherlock

No offence, but you're being a little bit dramatic. I'm fine, I promise. The pain has eased slightly now. Besides, I was sort of focused on you and your apparent disappearance off the face of the earth, and then the reason for that, so you can't blame me for forgetting to tell you. But I promise next time I break a bone I will tell you about it. Not that I'll have much opportunity to now I'm stuck at home.

Brilliant deductions as usual. (Also: hilarious height joke. Never heard that one before...) All correct, of course, so I don't think there's anything to correct. Except when you called it 'dull.' Breaking my collar bone is the most interesting thing that has happened to me in months. Slightly annoying and inconvenient, though. And of course there's only so much sympathy and attention and free chocolates one can deal with... 

The weekend after the 15th sounds perfect. How about Saturday the 18th? I have planned to go to a party on the evening exams finish. And no it's not dull. It'll be fun celebrating with everyone. Besides, there will definitely be alcohol and that's always entertaining. Especially when I'm usually the only sober one there. Do you have plans for afterwards? I'm guessing you probably don't, seeing as you dismissed the idea so quickly. I hope you have someone other than your parents and your brother to celebrate with. If not, you'll celebrate with me the following weekend. What do you want to do? I mean, seeing as I'm the local in London I should probably know what there is to do, but I'd like your input, so I don't accidentally take you to something you'd hate, like a ballet performance or something. Not that I could afford the tickets anyway. 

Thank you for the picture of Redbeard, by the way. I just got it in the post this morning. I was correct, he was cute. And by the looks of things, very energetic - he looks ready to run off at any moment. You do look very happy in that picture. Significant improvement from the frowning in the last picture (though it's a shame you're not in a wedding suit this time - haha! Not that you can't pull off your jeans and dress shirt look, that is.) Overall, 10/10. 

Anyway, see you soon. 28 days to go hopefully! 

Your friend,  
John.


	19. May 22nd 1996

Dear John

First of all, I would like to point out that I am not being dramatic at all. A broken bone is very serious and you still talk about how irritating and inconvenient it is, which proves my point exactly. I am a rational, logical person. I do not do 'dramatic', and I am very offended that you would suggest otherwise, John whatever-your-middle-name-is Watson.

Secondly, Saturday the 18th sounds fine. It's true, I'm not doing much to celebrate, other than a family dinner. I suppose you're right about how being sober and watching drunk people can be entertaining - I find that their true characters are more often revealed through alcohol. For example, it was very interesting when after a couple of glasses of sherry at the local fair, the 'happily' married vicar started to flirt - unsuccessfully - with Michael Morton, a widower. And my normally reserved mother usually starts dancing. That one is more embarrassing than anything to watch. Although I have to say, I would have thought you'd be one of the people drinking, being the popular, sociable rugby captain. Not to reinforce stereotypes or anything. Oh, I see. Your father. I suppose he would be enough to put you off drinking for a good long while, considering how he lost his job, ruined his marriage, etc, etc, due to drunk. Do you think you'll ever drink? 

I don't mind what we do in London. Try to avoid taking me to sporting events, please. I will probably end up talking over any film you take me to in the cinema. Films these days are so unimaginative and repetitive. I could probably spoil the plot for you within five minutes. Not to mention deducing the private lives of actors. Apparently, people don't like having their idealised images of celebrities 'ruined' for them. Honestly, if you could find a crime scene for me to break into, that would be ideal. A murder would be preferable. If not, sight-seeing will do. 

If I may admit something, I'd like to confess that I would not hate going to the ballet. I'm not asking you to take me - I understand that you'd probably dislike watching it, even if you were able to get tickets. But I think you should know that I actually quite enjoy ballet. From a musician's point of view, the artistic nature of the movements and the rhythms are fascinating. As a scientist, I like to observe how much muscular strength is required to pull off the lifts and turns and actions that could otherwise seem impossible - I doubt any of your rugby team could dance en pointe or carry fellow dancers the way many can on the stage. 

But anyway, what we do is up to you entirely. I look forward to seeing you. It's 27 days to go now and frankly, I dislike the idea of waiting so long. I've never been a patient person but I suppose I will find ways to keep myself occupied still.

By the way, 10/10? That's a rather generous assessment of the picture, but then again Redbeard wouldn't be deserving of any less. And no, of course I'm not wearing a wedding suit to the park. That would be highly impractical. Still, I'm glad your high fashion 'expertise' (Jumpers and plaid shirts? Really?) approves of the outfit in that picture. Perhaps I will make sure to wear it on the 18th.

Your friend,

Sherlock.


	20. May 23rd 1996

Dear Sherlock

Well, now I feel like I have no choice but to try and get you ballet tickets. You haven't really left me much choice - no films or sports, the two most popular options for first meetings. And you love ballet so much I would feel like a terrible person for stopping you from seeing it. (Sorry if I was being presumptuous about you not liking ballet, by the way. It's true it's never been my thing, but on that Saturday you'll be my guest, so I'd be more than happy to see it with you. Although I have to wonder - are you actually fascinated by the lifts and turns from a scientific point of view, or do you just like seeing athletic blokes in tights..?) 

My mum says that she and my dad went to the beach when they first met, but sadly there aren't any beaches in London. What about sightseeing? Or would you get bored staring at a sunset from the London Eye, or staring at statues at Madame Tussauds? There are museums we could go to. There's the natural history museum or the V+A museum - those are popular choices. Or there's a walnut museum if you're into that sort of thing. Please don't be into that sort of thing. 

And no, I'm not taking you to a crime scene, murder or otherwise. I'd rather not be arrested for trespassing at any point in my lifetime, and especially not on our first meeting.

You deduced correctly about why I don't drink. I mean, I don't mind having a little bit. But seeing what alcohol's done to my dad and my family, it's not exactly a great advertisement of the stuff. I don't know if it will be permanent. Maybe not. It does sometimes get a bit lonely being sober. And the idea of a magical courage-inducing liquid that can make the most serious of mothers dance and embarrass her son, or can make the most loyal of married vicars gay as a maypole, would seem appealing, but only when ignoring everything else that comes as a side effect. Still, I like being there to take care of people. It makes me feel useful. 

And Sherlock, you are dramatic. You are the most dramatic person I know. Only a dramatic person would find plaid shirts so appalling. If you're going to react so strongly to my taste in fashion, be sure to expect me in the ugliest plaid shirt I can find. You're lucky the weather is too hot nowadays for me to wear my jumper. Perhaps I should postpone our first meeting until it gets colder so you can get the chance to see it.

I'm not going to tell you what my middle name is. I find it a bit embarrassing personally. But, I suppose you have the right to know. If you can guess it! Don't worry, I'll give you a clue.

26 days to go. Be patient. I hope it will be as worth it for you as it will be for me.

Your friend,

John H. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: A walnut museum does exist, but in Dordogne, not London. Sadly, I've never had the good fortune of going, but one can only dream...
> 
> Also, don't worry, I will skip ahead to the meeting at one point - possibly next chapter, possibly after a few more letters if you want - rather than making you wait 26 more chapters.


	21. June 18th 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! :)

John checks his watch nervously for the fifth time that morning.

The station is crowded, people pushing past him in suits as they rush to work murmuring apologies, as is the standard for all crowded places in London. Some are on their phones, calling home or work, others are at the various food stalls, buying sandwiches or chocolate bars. John pays them no attention. He cranes his neck to try and see over them, to find the mop of dark curls he has looked at so many times in the photographs Sherlock had sent him. The train Sherlock was meant to be getting on is slightly late, but that simple, explainable fact doesn't quell the slight panic that Sherlock had not got on the train at all. John chews on his lower lip as he digs out his journal for the last letter Sherlock had sent, just to double check the details, just to reassure himself that Sherlock didn't seem on the verge of changing his mind last minute. He looks around again, hoping for anything - just a glimpse, just a - 

"John Watson?"

John whips around at the sound of the familiar baritone voice, now clear and no longer distorted by the telephone, and then there he is. Sherlock Holmes himself, standing in front of him. 

John's breath catches in his throat as he takes the sight of Sherlock in. It's nothing he hasn't technically seen before in the pictures Sherlock had sent - dark curls tamed with product, cheekbones, a long, skinny body framed and flattered by a tight purple dress shirt and jeans. Still, to see Sherlock here in the flesh, after months of conversing with one another through nothing but letters and phone calls, it all just feels...surreal. He tries to think of something to say - something witty, something original, something that won't make Sherlock realise how incredibly boring John is compared to him. His brain apparently settles on "Christ, you're tall," then he cringes internally because _Jesus Christ who says that to their soulmate on their first meeting._ Sherlock, however, doesn't seem to mind and he chuckles. "Only when I'm standing next to you."

John relaxes slightly and grins back, putting his journal back in his back pocket. "Modest and insulting in one comment. Nice." 

"I try," Sherlock replies, softly, a small smile stretching his lips and crinkling his eyes. John can't help but notice the way said eyes dash across his face and body, a strange blueish-greenish intensity of his stare that would put John off if it was from anyone else. 

He chuckles, "Go on then. I know you want to."

"What?" 

"Deduce me." 

A crease forms in the space between Sherlock's eyebrows. "Really? You're sure?"

"Absolutely. You've done it before."

"Not...face to face. I wouldn't want to disappoint you."

"As if you could."

"Most people find it disconcerting."

"We established months ago that that won't happen with me. Go ahead."

His eyes flicker for a couple more seconds, then he takes a breath and starts. "Your watch is your fathers' and he gave it to you as a gift on your sixteenth birthday. You've not been wearing your sling for the past three days, even though your doctors have told you to wait a week before taking it off. You didn't have any breakfast this morning and you got around...five hours of sleep, suggesting you were nervous about this meeting. Or something. This is the sixth outfit you tried on this morning. Your sister teased you mercilessly for it and your mother was fussing over you like a child, possibly crying. You were worried that either you got the details wrong or I had decided not to come - preposterous either way, the train was late and you know it. So now that I have arrived, and whatever nerves you were having has calmed down slightly, you need breakfast. Or brunch, rather, at this time of day. So, John, where do you suggest we go?"

"Go?" John blinks, his mind desperately trying to catch up with the rushed monologue. "Uh - I don't know, there's a cafe nearby I quite like - "

"Excellent, let's do it." Sherlock turns around and starts to speedily walk towards the exit. John has to jog slightly to keep up with his long strides.

"Sherlock - wait - " John places himself in front of the other boy. "That was - that was amazing."

He frowns. "Really?"

"Yes, really. God, it's weird to see it happen in real life, but still. It was brilliant."

Sherlock smiles slightly and a faint blush creeps up his neck. John wonders if (hopes that) this happened every time John has complimented him. "Thank you."

"No problem. So. Breakfast?"

"Breakfast." 

~

"So how did you know that stuff about me?" John asks, taking a bite of his muffin. 

Sherlock shrugs "Simple observation, that's all." He takes a sip of his coffee and pulls a face, clearly not up to his standards. "You don't have food stains but you do have a slight toothpaste stain." John turns red and attempts to scrub at the small stain. "Someone so careless who ate breakfast should have both. Your clothes are slightly crumpled in a way that suggests you put it on in a hurry, but you have the tired look of someone who did not accidentally lie in this morning, so you dressed in a hurry because you were trying on outfits. As for your watch," Sherlock reaches across the table to pull John's hand towards him, his fingers almost at John's pulse point, "It's an old model, around 20 or 30 years old. It's scratched and well worn, so not recently bought. A watch like that couldn't possibly be afforded at this time, so it's old and a gift. Your father wouldn't have let you borrow it out for the day if he was still technically in possession of it, and something worth so much would have been given as a present for an important birthday. As today's society focusses on the age of sixteen far too much, it's a fair guess to say it was your sixteenth birthday."

"What about the sling?"

"The way you hold your arm says you're not quite ready yet to be without a sling, which means the doctors must have told you to wait a little while - a week was a fairly accurate shot in the dark. You wouldn't take it off too early in a way that could damage your collar bone, but you're determined to fix it as soon as possible - you're stubborn, but all doctors do make the worst patients - "

"I'm not a doctor yet."

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "Only in title. I knew it was three days because you're ignoring your discomfort in a way that shows you're used to it by now."

"And my mum and sister?"

Sherlock smiles up at John bashfully. "I just knew from experience that siblings and parents tend to do those things."

John laughs. "That's cheating."

"No it's not. It's...intuition."

"You won't be able to solve crimes on intuition when you're older."

"Shame. I would still be more accurate than most police officers." 

John giggles again. "Well, I won't be here to bail you out when you're arrested for insulting our police force."

"I won't need you. I have excellent lock picking skills," Sherlock says matter-of-factly.

John shakes his head, grinning."Of course you do."  
~

"I assume you know where you're going," Sherlock says. 

"Of course I do. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I've been here before. Once. And I only got lost a couple of times."

"Well that's a relief," Sherlock mutters. 

John turns a few more corners, almost entirely certain he is going the right way. Sherlock sighs impatiently. "If this is that walnut museum, I told you I was joking when I said - "

"I know. Don't worry, I'm not so cruel as to make you go to that. Oh, here it is!"

They walk down the street until they come to the theatre, a large queue flowing into it, posters for various plays and musicals and shows adorning its walls and windows. Sherlock blinks in surprise at John. "I thought we weren't - "

"Surprise!" John smiles awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck nervously. "I know I said I couldn't, but a friend of mine said you can get last minute tickets quite cheaply. I mean, it might not be great seats but - "

"No, it's brilliant. I'm - thank you," Sherlock smiles excitedly at John, which he can't help but reciprocate in relief. "So. Which one are we seeing?"

"La Sylphide. I'm not sure what it's about but I hear it's quite good."

"It is. It's one of my favourites. I've never seen it before, but I like the music. Come on, let's go." 

John follows behind Sherlock, his heart swelling affectionately as he watches him bound into the ticket office. 

~

"That will be sixty three pounds, please."

"Sixty three pounds?!" John repeats incredulously. When the lady at the desk raises a displeased eyebrow, he quickly adds, "No, it's fine. I have - I have that." He counts out the money in his wallet that isn't for tube fare and food. "Uh - is there a ticket that's fifty pounds?"

"All the tickets under sixty three pounds have sold out, I'm afraid."

John swears under his breath, but then forms an idea in his head. He sighs at Sherlock. "Sorry, love. Maybe next time, eh?"

Sherlock frowns in confusion, and John cuts across any protest he is about to make. He turns to the lady at the desk. "It's a shame, really. Sherlock here, my boyfriend - well, my soulmate actually," he beams proudly up at him, "It's his first time in the UK. It's hard, you know, being overseas - he's from France, you know. And he loves the ballet. I just wanted to please him. Make his time here in the UK worthwhile." He feigns a sigh, and subtly kicks Sherlock to get him to play along.

"Uh - yes. Oui. I am from...Le France." John stares incredulously at Sherlock, who mouths sorry, I panicked. John looks back at the lady before he gives himself away completely, and is pleased to know her face seems to have softened.

"Poor loves. I can't imagine what it's like being so distant from one another." John smiles hopefully, but the lady shakes her head. "I'm sorry, but I have to be firm with you. Maybe you could book for tomorrow?"

John sighs. "That's when he goes back home. Never mind. Thank you, miss." In a vain attempt to gain her sympathies one last time, he takes Sherlock's hand in his as they walk out of the ticket office and cross the road. 

They lean back against the wall of a building together, John's stomach sinking in disappointment, when suddenly Sherlock starts giggling. "That was your plan? Pretend I was your foreign boyfriend to get a discount on tickets?" 

John can't help but grin with him. "What about you and your stupid accent? And here I was thinking you'd be a good actor."

"You put me on the spot! I didn't know what else to say." They both giggle at this, laughing until John's cheeks ache and they are both out of breath. When John calms down, he looks back at Sherlock, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright and sparkling merrily. 

He clears his throat. "Sorry my plan fell through. And I didn't get tickets in advance. I know you really wanted this."

Sherlock shrugs. "It's fine." Then his eyes widen, and a grin forms on his face. "Although...I think I have an idea on how to watch it. For free."

John's posture straightened. "This sounds illegal."

"It is. Sort of. How willing are you to commit a crime to get into the theatre?"

"Tell me this plan of yours first."

Sherlock nods. "Okay. See that back alley next to the theatre there?" John nods. "There should be a door there that will lead us backstage. From there we can make our way into a space where we can get a view of the stage while remaining hidden."

"That doesn't sound too illegal."

"The door in the back alley is guarded by a body guard, who can identify all the cast members and therefore won't let us in. However, this guard will most likely be ex-police force or ex-military, so will have a natural...do-gooder instinct. So what we will do is distract him away from the door."

"How?"

"I'm going to steal a lady's wallet and plant it on someone else, while you call for help."

"Right. Wait, what?"

"Are you with me or not?" Sherlock's eyes stare into John's beseechingly, intensely. Knowing he would never be able to refuse a look like that, John sighs and nods.

"Fine. But I swear to god, if I go to prison for this - "

"Mycroft will bail you out," Sherlock promises solemnly. "Come on, let's do it."

They cross back over the road and separate themselves. Adrenaline pumps through John's veins as his stomach flutters both nervously and excitedly. His breath hitches in his throat fearfully at the thought of being caught, but at the same time he can't remember ever doing anything so exciting. He leans back against the wall and watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Delicately, smoothly, Sherlock's long fingers reach into the pocket of a nearby woman's coat, then places it into the pocket of a passerby. Sherlock nods at John, who yells out, "Stop! Thief!"

Almost instantly, a large, aggressive looking man comes out of the alley. "Which way?" He asks John, and John points in the direction of the passerby. "Him in the trench coat." The man runs past John and pursues the man, who has now broken out into a sprint after discovering he was being chased. John dives discreetly into the alley and waits for Sherlock. 

Sherlock appears a few minutes later, grinning from ear to ear in a way that makes John's heart flutter. "Well done. You performed your role excellently."

John preened at the praise, smiling. "Thanks. I feel bad for that man, though. And that woman."

"Don't. The woman will have her wallet returned to her and that man genuinely does steal from people. That guard should find eight more wallets on his person."

"Wow. Okay, then," He giggles. "Is this my life now? Breaking the law and catching thieves while doing it?"

"Essentially, yes." Sherlock opens the door for John. "Shall we?"

They quickly enter inside before the guard can return.

~

John squirms uncomfortably as he tries to sit himself in a position that's comfortable, which is very difficult when in a crowded space back stage, hiding behind props and costumes with Sherlock sitting beside him, pressed up against him. 

"When you said there was a space we could see the stage, I didn't realise you meant a fucking sauna," John hisses.

"Well, in case you didn't notice, we can't exactly sit in the audience," Sherlock whispers back, "Thanks to your poor planning."

"Piss off," John rolls his eyes, but smiles at Sherlock when he sees the excited, wide-eyed look on his face. "So. Tell me about the play, then."

"It's about a Scottish man named James - "

"How original -

"Who is engaged to a woman named Effie. One night while asleep in his chair, a creature called a sylph comes to visit him and kisses him. She vanishes as soon as he wakes up, leaving him disappointed and angry. A witch appears, and Effie and her bridesmaids - who are visiting to prepare for the wedding - beg her to tell their fortunes. She tells Effie that James is in love with someone else and she will instead marry James' best friend."

"This feels like an episode of Corrie."

"Shush. So later, the sylph appears again and he kisses her. His best friend sees this and runs off to tell Effie, but they don't believe him. At the wedding, the sylph returns and steals the ring that is meant for Effie. James chases her into the forest, leaving his bride-to-be heart broken.

"Later, the wedding guests search for him in the forest. James' best friend proposes to Effie, urged on by the witch, and she accepts. The witch later meets James and gives him a scarf that she promises will - oh look, it's starting!"

John tries to pay attention to the ballet. He truly does. It does look interesting for a tiny bit - a beautiful woman dancing around a man in a kilt sleeping on a chair. And he knows how important this is for Sherlock But then his attention averts to other things - how long can they stay there? What will they do at the interval? What should they eat for dinner? He turns to look at Sherlock to wonder if he is enjoying it any more than John is, and he smiles when he sees the look on Sherlock's face.

He is completely rapt, watching the dancer's movements with keen, eager eyes and his lips parted. His finger taps out the rhythm of the tunes on his knee and his breath hitches at parts which look particularly difficult to pull off - leaps and lifts and the other things John doesn't know the technical terms for. In the faint light from the staging that shines on his dark curls and highlights his cheekbones, Sherlock looks like he is glowing.

John isn't interested in ballet, but he would happily watch Sherlock for two and a bit hours. 

The stage darkens for the interval, and John and Sherlock huddle closer together among the props to stay hidden as the ballerinas pile out from the stage. When they all leave, John breathes a sigh of relief.

"So. How did you find that?"

"Amazing." Sherlock grins. "You?"

John falters. "Yeah. Good."

"No you didn't," Sherlock chuckles, standing up. "Come on, let's stretch our legs. That hiding place is murder on the knees."

Sherlock stretches out his hand and John uses it to pull himself up. "Do you think we can risk going to the bar and getting a drink and some crisps?"

"Possibly. Well, what are we if not risk takers?"

They come out of their hiding place and walk past the various dressing rooms, Sherlock whispering excitedly about the various parts of the ballet he's found interesting so far:

"And did you see that bit where - "

"Yes, I saw it - "

"What about that ballerina with the red hair? Her turns were abysmal - 

"I didn't notice - "

"The actor for James is sleeping with one of the bridesmaids, you know - "

It is at this point John bumped into someone. "Oof, sorry - oh."

Of course that someone has to be the guard from earlier. Of bloody course.

Sherlock and John make eye contact, then by some unspoken, unanimous agreement, they both run, dodging the guard and speeding past him and out into the back alley. By some miracle, the guard is unable to catch up with them, clearly lacking in speed where he made up in muscle. They carry on running, their lungs and legs protesting, until they reach a street far enough away that they could pause, laughing breathlessly until they were sore.

"That was - the most ridiculous thing - I have ever done," John manages to gasp out eventually.

"Which part, running out of a theatre? Or the fact that you broke into one in the first place?"

"Yes." 

Sherlock laughs at this. "So. What do we have planned next? Robbery? Fraud?"

"Actually, I was thinking of having dinner."

"Ugh. Dull. Use your imagination next time." 

~

Dinner is anything but dull. 

John picks an Italian restaurant that he likes. The waiter winks and brings them both a candle, stating that it's more romantic, but neither John nor Sherlock correct her. They simply both avert their gaze to the menu and quickly order.

Over dinner, it feels like they talk about everything and nothing: the ballet they've just seen, Sherlock's childhood days sneaking into ballet lessons when he was supposed to be with his nanny, the weather, John's rugby experiences, school, Redbeard (who Sherlock still misses terribly, if the weak smile and distant look in his eye when he came up is any indication). 

John doesn't want it to end.

Once they're done and John paid ('No, I insist, Sherlock. I didn't pay for the ballet, I can pay for this), they walk to the station together, barely a centimetre of space between them.

At the station, which is now considerably quieter, with only a few other people scattered around them, they stand on each side of a barrier, Sherlock preparing to get on the train, which is due to leave in four minutes.

John doesn't want him to leave.

"Thanks for coming today. I really enjoyed it."

"I did too. Sorry about making you do illegal things to get us into the theatre."

"That was probably the highlight of my week," John chuckles. "Write as soon as you get home, so I know you got home safe. Or call"

"I will," Sherlock promises. "Though I don't know ho much danger I could get in getting home on a train."

John opens his mouth to say something, anything, to make Sherlock stay longer, but the announcement comes that the train will be leaving in two minutes.

"Goodbye, John."

John feels a pressure on his lips, soft and warm, and his eyes shut on instinct, but it is gone as quickly as it came. 

He watches transfixed as the train pulls away, his lips tingling still from Sherlock's lips on his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All knowledge of La Sylphide credited to Wikipedia. I have never seen the show so please excuse any mistakes. Also, do not try to use this method to break into a theatre. It probably will not work and I don't think theatres or guards work the way I imagined it.


	22. June 19th 1996

Dear John

I'm writing to let you know that I'm now home, safe and sound, as requested. I'm sorry that it's a tiny bit late - I was bombarded with questions about you and my trip to London from my parents for several hours and it completely exhausted me, so I accidentally fell asleep instead of writing to you. I suppose it was probably the same with you and your parents. You should know that my parents greatly approve of you (mostly because I left out the tiny detail of our slightly illegal misdemeanours) and are asking about when they get to meet you. You don't have to meet them just yet. Or ever. They're incredibly annoying. As is my brother, who would definitely get a 'convenient' day off work to cross-examine you. I can only apologise in advance if you do choose to ignore my warning and meet them.

I'm also writing to let you know that I'm sorry about what happened at the end, before I left. It was unwelcome, I know, and I promise it won't happen again. It would be greatly appreciated if we could forget about the whole thing and move on.

Thanks again for inviting me out to London. 

From, Sherlock


	23. June 20th 1996

Dear Sherlock,

Don't worry about not getting back to me quickly. I'm glad you're home safe.

I got loads of questions from my parents and sister too. Don't worry, I left out all the illegal things as well. My mum and sister approve and are very excited to meet you too, though my sister has been teasing me quite a bit. Mum says she's just jealous because she won't get to write to her soulmate for over a year. My dad isn't so keen on the idea that my soulmate is a) a boy, b) able to deduce someone's life story just from their handwriting or their face and c) (shock! Horror!) likes ballet, but that's not important. His opinion doesn't matter. Still, if you do decide to meet my family at some point, don't be put off by my dad. He may be a bit of a dickhead but he knows how to behave in front of guests. Tell your parents I would love to meet them too. They sound really nice and I'm dead curious to find out who the parents of the great Sherlock Holmes are. Besides, I'd like to come over to Sussex next time we meet, if that's alright, and it will probably be difficult to avoid your family if I do. Village gossip spreads fast, right? And don't worry about your brother - I'm pretty sure I can handle the 'if you break his heart I break your legs' talk, if that's what you mean by 'cross-examine'. 

In terms of what happened before you left, it's fine, you know. It's honestly all fine. It wasn't unwelcome at all, I probably just froze up a bit in surprise. We could try and forget about it if you really want but honestly, I haven't been able to think about much else since. I just have to know one thing - did you do it because you wanted to? Or because you felt like you had to? I hope you wanted to. I wanted to do that too pretty much the entire day. 

Okay, we should probably try and be grown ups about it and actually say what happened, instead of using euphemisms, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with what happened.

You kissed me.

We kissed.

And I liked it. 

I hope you did too.

Anyway, please right back soon, so I know you weren't completely scared off by what I just said. You probably were, weren't you. Sorry.

John.


	24. June 21st 1996

Dear John,

If you think I was scared off by you admitting something so simple as you wanting to kiss me and liking kissing me, then you must be even more of an idiot than I had originally thought. No offence.

As I have mentioned in previous letters, I am rather inexperienced with these kinds of things. My knowledge of romance and such things consist entirely of stories forced onto me by my various elder relatives about their own soulmates, and even then most of those I've deleted. I've had little interest in relationships, at least not to the extremes of most people our age, though you've probably figured that out - it hardly takes a genius. Anyway, please don't expect a Shakespearean sonnet out of this, as I will be blunt with what I want to say.

I will also ignore the rest of your letter. Right now thoughts of parents and interfering elder siblings (who will, by the way, be capable of far more thank 'breaking your leg' should the urge occur, so no pressure on you) are incredibly unimportant.

I kissed you because I wanted to (and yes, I suppose I agree- it is rather nice to be able to write it properly instead of using euphemisms). I did not kiss you because I felt obliged to, or because you paid for our meal, or because it was just because you wanted. I didn't even know if you did want to at the time - it was a risk that was less calculated than my risk-taking normally is. I simply knew I would regret it if I left without trying it at least once. I suppose it all worked out for the better, didn't it? 

By the way, nor did I kiss you for an experiment. Or out of curiosity. Well, sort of. It's difficult to explain. I suppose it is curiosity in a way, isn't it? Except one trial run probably isn't enough, as it would be in the event that this was little more than a scientific experiment - it is rather a lot less satiable. It's rather distracting, actually. You're a terribly inconvenient influence on me. 

So, to clarify: we both liked kissing each other, and we both want to kiss each other again. Okay then. Good.

I just have one question: does this mean we're in a romantic relationship now? I'm aware that I originally expressed a distaste for such things, but don't be put off. You'll remember I wasn't particularly optimistic about the idea of friendship either, and that's worked out well, hasn't it? 

Anyway, speak to you soon. 

Sherlock

P.S: Are we going to stop signing off as 'your friend' completely now? It's fine if we do - it's only logical seeing as we've probably crossed some sorts of boundaries. On the other hand, I have been informed that a romantic relationship is essentially a friendship with more touchy-feely-ness and stronger emotions, so really would it be accurate to say we're no longer friends simply because we've kissed? This is one of the few moments in life I will refer to your experience and wisdom for help with all of this. Cherish it while you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018!


	25. June 23rd 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the nice comments! The last chapter was unexpectedly popular, so thanks!

Dear Sherlock,

Honestly, your letter is better than any Shakespearean sonnet you could have given me. I've reread it probably a dozen times, trying to come up with something to say that would compete with all of that. You're a romantic, Sherlock Holmes, and I can hear you scoffing all the way over here, but don't let anyone tell you otherwise. 

Yes, by all definitions, I think we're in a romantic relationship. I would double check with you if this is okay and that you're comfortable with all this, but I'm fairly sure you'd travel up to London just to slap me and call me an idiot. And I'd probably let you. 

I'm not sure how useful my 'wisdom' and 'experience' will be in this. This will be different to my previous relationships (if they can even be called that), won't it? Not because I've only ever had girlfriends - I'm not bothered about that- but because we're soulmates. Because this isn't like in school where you go out for a few months until you realise you never actually talk to each other and break it off. Because I've never been more ecstatic to be going out with someone but terrified of messing it up at the same time. So I'm not expert, by any means. Still, I'm very pleased you would consider me as one. Slightly smug too. No wonder you like showing off your deductions to us mere mortals who remain in awe of them.

I'm also very flattered you would consider me a distraction and a bad influence. The feeling is very much mutual. It's not just the kissing either. I think I just miss you, which is mad, because we only met once, and that was a week ago. But it's true. I'm already looking at my calendar to see when I'm free to come down and see you. 

And thanks for that slightly terrifying warning about your brother, by the way. I certainly don't plan on doing anything that would make him want to break any limbs, legs or otherwise.

In terms of what we sign off with, we can keep going with 'friend' if you want. But how would you feel about this?

Your boyfriend, 

John

P.S. In other news, I have a job now! It's nothing special, just working behind the counter at a cafe. I start next week. Still, I'm really excited, and I can start to save up money for a-level textbooks and uni and days out with you. Plus, I have to find something productive to do now I no longer have school to worry about. Or at least, until September.


	26. June 24th 1996

Dear John,

First of all, congratulations on your new job. I'm sure you'll be excellent at all the coffee-making and the coffee-serving and dealing with stubborn customers with wailing babies. I personally can't imagine a more hellish place to work. It would be hard for me to stick to the 'customer is always right' rule when usually it is the customers who are so incredibly, annoyingly wrong: holding up queues with long, complex orders, complaining about petty manners they feel entitled to. Not to mention how the steam from the coffee makers would make my hair frizz. So I applaud your patience and strength in this truly challenging time.

My parents are currently debating whether I should get a job too - as though they're the ones who will be affected by that decision. Dad thinks it will be good experience and help my 'people skills'. Mummy thinks it's a waste of time and I should be focusing on preparing for a-levels and, eventually, university. No prizes for guessing whose side I'm on...

Secondly - yes, you would be an idiot for having to double check if being in a romantic relationship - being boyfriends, even, and yes, that term is perfectly acceptable - is okay. I hope I did make myself clear enough in my last letter and I dislike repeating myself. Though I probably wouldn't slap you. I'd like to think myself above physical violence. With the exception of self defence. And when I used to fight with my brother ~~last week~~ when I was younger. 

I suppose you're right about this being different to your previous relationships. That is, I can only assume so from what I've seen at school: couples are lucky to last more than three months, and what was once promised to be something that would last as long as humanly possible, ends either with awkward relief or humiliation and resentment. So honestly, I'd say it's a good thing that we won't be like that. ~~Will we?~~

It'll be fine, John. The fact that we're soulmates shouldn't make it any more burdensome. If anything, it's made it easier. Though previously I was cynical about this ridiculous matchmaking system of predicting compatibility based on factors such as gender, intelligence, class, family background and whatever secret surveillance our government is using throughout our lives, it has worked out for us, hasn't it? We're a successful match. And if we're both slightly terrified and inexperienced - so what? If we can successfully break into a theatre, one relationship shouldn't be too difficult. 

I miss you too. Please let me know when we can next meet. I'm free any time until my family and I go on holiday from 8th of July to the 17th, and even then my parents wouldn't mind me staying a little bit longer. They're very happy I have someone to stay for at all, after sixteen years of concern over my apparent loneliness. In fact, with some convincing, they may let me take you with us. But I'm rambling, thinking too far ahead. We should probably just take this one day at a time, shouldn't we. 

Your boyfriend, 

Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I low-key have an entire history and origin story of soulmate journals tbh


	27. July 2nd 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Also, I just noticed that I gave the wrong date for the last chapter - it's been changed to June now instead of July.

This isn't their first meeting, so Sherlock is surprised, even somewhat disgusted at himself for how much he is fretting over this. It's pathetic really, and he scoffs and rolls his eyes at his smartened up appearance in the mirror; at the note he leaves for his parents with detailed instructions including _don't overreact, it's not a big deal and he likes curry, so please make your chicken curry thing that you normally make only at new years' and for god's sake, don't bring out the baby photos;_ at the bedroom floor he had vacuumed just in case...just in case of what? He decides to leave this question unanswered for the moment. However, when he feels like cutting himself some slack and abandoning the self-loathing momentarily, he reasons with himself that this is the first time they're meeting since they officially decided to become Boyfriends - a term which, Sherlock thinks, entirely deserves that capitalisation - which means that everything had to be perfect, from his appearance to his parents' ability to behave reasonably to his bedroom floor. 

However, British weather being British weather, the climate in uncooperative with Sherlock's plan, and it is chucking it down with rain by the time he arrives at the station. His hair is wet and his curls are plastered to his forehead, his clothes are uncomfortably damp, and his coat and umbrella remain in the cupboard under the stairs. 

Sherlock considers running inside the building for shelter, but that would mean missing John's arrival, which could lead to John thinking Sherlock had abandoned him, which definitely will not do at all. Sherlock imagines the look of disappointment on John's face, the worry at being in a strange new place without anyone there to guide him, him thinking that Sherlock doesn't care, deciding that he's not worth the time anyway, and hopping back on the next train to London and never talking to Sherlock again. With a shake of his head, he decides he can stand a bit of cold and damp in order to avoid this completely ludicrous scenario. 

Fortunately, he doesn't wait long before he sees John coming out from the train carriage, with a beam bright enough to fill Sherlock with warmth and make him forget the atrocious weather. He is also wearing a raincoat with a hood covering his sandy blonde hair - clever, well prepared - and is somewhat shielded from the weather.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you're soaked through!" Is the first thing John says to him - ever the caring doctor - as though it had been two days and not two weeks (entirely too long, in Sherlock's opinion) since they last spoke face to face. 

"It's just a light shower," Sherlock replies with a shrug. "Hardly anything I can't cope with."

John scoffs and reaches a hand up, tucking a damp curl behind Sherlock's ear. "Still, I'd rather not stand here for too long. You'll get a cold, and I don't want you ill while I'm here visiting. Is there a cafe we can warm ourselves up in?"

Unfortunately, the only cafe available within walking distance is plain and drab, with only a few tacky tables from Ikea to sit at and a menu that never changes, hardly the sort that would be found in London. The one mildly scandalous fact about the place is that they once sold the local supermarket's brownies instead of their usual homemade ones. (There was a huge outcry from its frequent customers, and they received several letters of complaint and even had an article written about it in the local newspaper). There were only three other people there: two old ladies gossiping about the plans for the next village fete, and behind the counter is a bored-looking seventeen-year-old boy whom Sherlock has never spoken to and won't attempt to do so other than to order his and John's coffee. 

He sits back down again opposite John, their knees brushing under the small table. John has since taken off his raincoat, revealing a t-shirt and a red football jacket underneath (red is very much his colour, Sherlock decides). John nods his head subtly at the seventeen-year-old currently making their coffees. "Deduce him."

The words make him smile. Sherlock loves doing this for John - John doesn't mock him or treat him like a performing monkey to throw peanuts at and laugh at. He listens in fascination. Still, Sherlock shakes his head. "That's not fair. We're in a village. Everyone knows everyone around here. You could ask old Agatha over there for his life details and she'd be able to tell you the weight he was at birth and the fact that he once got into trouble with the police for marijuana possession, and that his mother is a dear who always contributes to the cake stall with her homemade mini-meringues." 

"Yes, but I don't care what Agatha thinks. I care about what you can see just from looking at him. Forget what you already know." 

Sherlock makes a show of sighing, as though this causes him great pain and exhaustion, but both he and John know that he really loves the showing off. "Fine. From the oil on his jeans and hands, I can see he's training to become a mechanic. From the bags under his eyes, I can see this isn't going well. His clothes are old and have been repaired a couple of times, which means he and his family are having difficulties with finance at the moment, but the fact that they're designer tells me this is only recent. Maybe that's why he's doing his training while he's doing shifts here. His handwriting, how long it took for him to count out my change, and the fact alone that he had to write down my very simple order of two coffees, all say that he's dropped out of school. And - oh, that's very interesting."

"What is?"

"The fact that he keeps glancing over at you says that things aren't going well with his soulmate and he is very obviously attracted to you."

"Wait, he is?" John glances over his shoulder at the boy in question, and Sherlock kicks him. "Ow! What was that for?"

"Don't stare."

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare."

"Are you jealous?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replies haughtily. "Why should I be? He has absolutely nothing going for him you could possibly be attracted to."

"I don't know, those greasy, oily hands currently handling my coffee are kind of doing it for me - ow! I was kidding!"

"Good." The boy comes to deliver their coffee, and Sherlock glares daggers at his back as he returns to the counter. John chuckles and reaches across the table, taking Sherlock's hand in his as he says casually, "Well, unfortunately for him, I'm very much taken." 

Sherlock turns his gaze, his glare wiped away, back to John, and he grins. "You are, aren't you."

"Exactly. So why would some mechanic with no sense of personal hygiene even have a chance against you?" 

Sherlock smiles and blushes into his coffee, newly reassured. But just for good measure, he glances back at the mechanic, who has now had the good grace to turn his attention to cleaning the counter. Good.

~

Stomachs and hands warmed by the coffee, which John rates a solid seven out of ten in his humble, qualified barista opinion ( _'You've had two shifts, John. Two' 'Yeah, and that's two more than you'll ever do, so leave the coffee discourse to the experts.' 'For god's sake'_ ), they head out of the cafe to go back to Sherlock's house. Sherlock resisted at first, explaining that he had an entire schedule of sightseeing planned - or rather, as much of sightseeing as someone can do in a place that has three churches, two pubs, one park and absolutely no redeeming features of any kind that could entertain the two of them - but John shook his head. "You need your coat. I wouldn't be surprised if you needed a change of clothes." Sherlock rolled his eyes but agreed.

Sherlock always found his house relatively unexciting - dark red walls surrounded by green fields, a front garden, a good half hour's walk away from the town, so that by the time he and John make it there they're both soaked through, even John who was so smug about remembering his own coat earlier. John doesn't seem to find it too disappointing. In fact, he's staring at it with wide eyes. "Wow. That's - um - big."

Sherlock feels himself blushing for no particular reason. "Hardly. I don't live in a mansion."

"It's twice the size of my flat at home. So - are you..."

John trails off and Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, a cue for him to continue.

"Rich?"

Sherlock shrugs. "'Well off' is a more apt description."

"Still. God, my mum would love this place. She loves cottages and the countryside. There's this terrible movie she watches all the time just because she likes the house the main character lives in," John chuckles. 

When they enter the cottage, Mrs Holmes is in the living room reading. "Oh, boys! Is that you? I thought you weren't going to be back for a few hours."

"Slight change of plan," Sherlock explains. "I need my coat."

Mrs Holmes comes out into the hall to greet them, and she beams widely at John. "Hello. John, isn't it? It's I've heard so much about you!" She then wraps her arms around John in a tight hug, which was specifically against the list he gave her - _item twelve, no hugging or kissing or any kind of physical contact other than handshakes._ Sherlock cringes and turns away from the scene, making a show of rummaging through the cupboard under the stairs for his coat.

"Only good things I hope," John smiles. "You have a lovely home, by the way."

Mrs Holmes makes a delighted sound which Sherlock rolls his eyes at. Of course, it would take John a matter of two sentences to win Sherlock's mother over. He's charming. It worked with Sherlock, way back in April. "Oh, thank you! It's nice to know _someone_ here appreciates the house."

"It's hardly my fault I'm interested in things beyond house decor." Sherlock puts on his coat - the wool, black one that flows behind him when he walks (and as a bonus, flatters his gangly figure better than any waterproof raincoat would). "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

"Sherlock, you can't possibly think about going out in that. It's useless!"

"It'll do. Keeps me warm."

"Warmth isn't the problem at the moment. What about your raincoat?"

"Spilled chemicals on it. Experiment," Sherlock replies quickly. It isn't true, of course, and if Mrs Holmes bothers to look she will find it as good as new with the rest of the coats. He makes a mental note to fix that as soon as possible.

"Oh dear. Sill, I don't think you should go outside. It is raining rather heavily."

"What are we supposed to do otherwise?" 

"Stay here. Watch some telly. Play a board game."

Sherlock scoffs. "Please. Why would John and I want - "

"Actually that doesn't sound half bad," John interrupts. "It is pretty miserable outside. It will probably clear up soon enough anyway. Come on, Sherlock. Let's play a board game."

"No. Absolutely not. I refuse."

~

"I hate you."

John grins up at him as he puts down a card on the ever-growing pile that's facing up, lying on his stomach on the living room rug. "No, you don't."

Sherlock sighs. "No, I don't." He could have refused. He could have easily insisted on going outside anyway, but John made that face - the one where his eyes go soft and wide and lighten from their normally violet to sky blue, a shade Sherlock can't say no to. So he allowed for them to play a card game - something not entirely dull that requires wit and a quick hand, instead of a brightly-coloured board game that relies only on luck. This game isn't meeting those expectations. He puts down another card on top. "But I'm getting there."

"Pick up three unless you have a two or a three."

Sherlock groans and picks up three cards - in his hand is an entire fan of what must be at least fifteen cards, splayed out and drastically bigger in comparison to the small hand of three in John's hand. This means John is winning, he remembers correctly. "Okay, now I do. Seriously, again?"

"What can I say? I'm the master of Black Five." John's smile is crooked and cheeky and Sherlock can't help emulating it softly.

"No. This is chance. There is no skill about this."

" _En contraire, mon ami _, there is a great deal of skill in playing the hand you are dealt correctly. Do you save the magic cards or use them up at once? Do you switch to spades or hearts when you play an eight? So many choices to make. Besides, if it was about luck, and not experience and skill, how come I won the last seven rounds?"__

__John flaunts this fact proudly, waving it in Sherlock's face with the confidence that he is a sore loser, but stubborn enough to want to keep playing despite John's provocation. Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement of his judgement. "Just you wait until I've had more practice. Then we'll see who the master of Black Five is."_ _

__"Were the last seven rounds not enough practice for you?"_ _

__John ducks at the cushion flying at his head._ _

__Three rounds later, Sherlock scores his first victory, and as he smugly shuffles the cards to deal them out between them, he doesn't notice the flashes of lightning outside, or that the steady taps of rain at the windows have grown heavier._ _

__~_ _

__Later, they have dinner - curry, as Sherlock requested. John eats up eagerly then piles his plate up with seconds whereas Sherlock is only halfway through his first - and most likely only - serving._ _

__"This is amazing. You're a brilliant cook, Mrs Holmes."_ _

__Mrs Holmes smiles. "Thank you, John. It's nothing, really. You should try my husband's cooking if you really want a 'brilliant cook'."_ _

__"Still, this is really good. How did you know I liked curry so much?"_ _

__Sherlock subtly shakes his head at Mrs Holmes with wide, pleading eyes. Mrs Holmes understands, and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief as she shrugs and answers. "Mother's intuition."_ _

__"I'm fairly sure that only applies to biological mothers," Sherlock mutters._ _

__"Well, John's your soulmate, isn't he? He's part of the family." Mrs Holmes ruffles John's hair as she walks past, taking her plate to the sink, and both boys blush into their own dishes, hiding their grins and avoiding eye contact._ _

__At this point, the front door slams open, blown into the wall by the wind as Mr Holmes steps inside, shaking off rain from his umbrella. "Blimey, it's wet out there! Haven't seen a summer storm like this since- "_ _

__"Since the seventies, yes, I said that to Ann earlier." They love finishing each other's sentences - it's a habit that could only come from tolerating each other for so many years and is incredibly annoying, as Sherlock observes. Mr Holmes comes in and kisses his wife soundly on the cheek before smiling at John._ _

__"Ah, so you must be Sherlock's mystery man!"_ _

__"Father, stop," Sherlock mumbles, his face heating up at that description._ _

__"Hi, yes. Though I was under the impression that Sherlock had said a lot about me."_ _

__"Oh not at all. He's very private. We practically have to force any information out of him - "_ _

__"Siger!" Mrs Holmes chastises, hitting him playfully on the arm as she passes him. "I'm sorry, John. I only meant to be polite. This one just doesn't know when to shut up."_ _

__"No, it's fine." Sherlock dares to look up from the table and John's eyes are sparkling in amusement, a smile playing at his lips. "I understand."_ _

__"Good. Oh, by the way, you know Kelly Lambert? I was talking to her on the bus back from work and she said - "_ _

__"Oh, I don't listen to anything that cow says anymore. I can't trust her with anything anymore since she put in the village news brochure that I was fifty-five - "_ _

__"When you're only fifty-three!" Mr Holmes finishes, shaking his head and grinning as though it's the first time they've discussed this heinous crime. (It's not. It's definitely not.) "Still, she says that a tree has blown over onto the railway tracks, which is why she was getting the bus back. Honestly, I never would have thought it would get this bad. And in July as well!"_ _

__"Hold on - did you say there's a tree on the tracks?" John asks._ _

__"Oh, yes. I doubt they'll be able to clear it until the morning - why, is something the matter?"_ _

__John hesitates, but then shakes his head. Doesn't want to cause to much 'bother', as though doing something for John Watson could be any kind of trouble at all. "It's fine. I can take a bus home - or at least to a nearby station where the trains aren't delayed - "_ _

__"Don't be an idiot, John, both those plans are a complete waste of time. We'll drive you home."_ _

__"Sherlock," Mr Holmes sighs. "The car's at the mechanic, remember?"_ _

__"It was unimportant for me to remember it up until this moment. So...we could borrow a neighbour's car. You must owe someone a favour by...sharing out some kind of recipe for lasagna or volunteering for some charity event or other."_ _

__"Or John could stay the night until the tracks are cleared," Mrs Holmes suggests._ _

__Sherlock glances at John next to him, eyes wide and sharp as he waits for a reaction. He's not sure what response he would panic less over, but soon enough the question is dismissed from his mind as irrelevant. John simply smiles and says. "I'd love to. Can I use your phone please to tell my mum?"_ _

__~_ _

__"So. Those are your parents," John comments as they sit on the floor of Sherlock's room, having been evicted from the living room as Mr and Mrs Holmes' favourite programme was on, and their competitive gameplay was far too much of a distraction. (Sherlock is simply thankful that he had the foresight to hoover and tidy beforehand.)_ _

__"Yes, I would have thought that was rather obvious. Do you have any threes?"_ _

__John sighs as he hands over two cards and Sherlock smugly tucks it into the fan in his hand. "I suppose it is, in terms of appearance. But still. They're so - "_ _

__"What?" Sherlock looks up at him sharply._ _

__"Ordinary," John finishes, and Sherlock could almost sigh in relief. Ordinary is good. Ordinary implies he is the opposite of ordinary. Extraordinary. He can imagine John saying this, breathless with awe as the word slips past his lips as though it was only meant to be said by him._ _

__"Yes, it's a cross I have to bear."_ _

__John giggles, a light sound like bells that send a thrill up Sherlock's spine. "Well, I think your parents are nice. Do you have any fours?"_ _

__"Go fish. Yes, a lot of people tend to think that. Some have assumed that Mycroft and I are adopted because of it. I had to look for my own birth certificate just to make sure. I was nine."_ _

__John smiles softly this time, almost a look of sadness. "I think you're nice too."_ _

__The corners of Sherlock's lips tug upwards unwittingly. "If you insist," he says, like a parent indulging their child._ _

__"No, Sherlock, I mean it," John shuffles forwards, determined, sitting closer. "You _are_ nice. Yeah, you're tactless at times and brutally honest and you kind of have a jealous streak - "_ _

__"I hope you're going somewhere with this."_ _

__" - But you're nice. You planned out a day for us. You indulged in my card games. You told your mum to make curry for me - don't pretend you didn't. You even hoovered your room for me - you missed a spot in that corner over there, by the way."_ _

__Sherlock sighs, "Oh, for god's sake," and turns to look over at the corner in question, only for John to cup his cheek, forcing him to turn back. He sees the look in John's eyes and swallows on reflex, heart hammering out of his chest. John can probably feel it._ _

__"Alright?" He murmurs, a soft ghost of a whisper that Sherlock can feel, palpable against his skin. He nods without hesitation. This was bound to happen at some point anyway, wasn't it? John leans in, pressing their mouths softly together. It's different to the first kiss - if that can be called a kiss at all, as it was little more than a nervous press of dry lips that barely lasted two seconds. There's no swelling music, violins rising in crescendo, or fireworks behind eyelids, Just the feeling that this is right and _oh my god, why haven't we done this sooner._ Sherlock relaxes as he (he hopes) gets the hand of things, tentatively parting his mouth slightly and swallowing up the sigh that escapes John's mouth. _ _

__A knock sounds on the door and the two boys spring apart, cheeks flushing almost as pink as their kiss-swollen lips. Mrs Holmes opens the door by only a couple of inches. It's a small intrusion, but an intrusion nonetheless that pops the bubble that had built around this small, bedroom-sized world in which Sherlock beats John at card games and they kiss and laugh and smile and talk without awkwardness or cruelty. A strange world, indeed. Sherlock is brought back to reality and scowls at his mother, who says, "Your father and I are going to bed now, so try to keep the noise down while you're playing your game. John, you're sleeping in Mycroft's old room, which is next to Sherlock's on the right-hand side. I hope that's alright."_ _

__"Well, I'm sure once John gets over the stench of Mycroft's body odour and finds his hidden stash of doughnuts he will grow to like it." John laughs at this, and Mrs Holmes does her best to seem cross._ _

__"Now, Sherlock, be nice. At least in front of our guest. You love your brother, really."_ _

__"Really?" Sherlock feigns a look of innocent surprise that makes John muffle his giggles behind his hand. Mrs Holmes rolls her eyes and shuts the door, leaving them in peace once more._ _

__"You're incorrigible, Sherlock Holmes," John says eventually, once he has his breath back, only then for him to steal Sherlock's away by kissing him again._ _

__~_ _

__They're still awake at midnight, whispering together in the darkness, though only just. Sherlock can see John's eyes drifting shut, only for them to be forced back open by sheer stubbornness. Some time after changing into pyjamas - or at least in John's case, settling for just his boxers and t-shirt after they found Sherlock's pyjama bottoms to be a trip hazard due to their length the hard way. John will have a slight bruise on his hip in the morning because of this - they sat together on top of the quilts of Sherlock's bed. They're now lying facing each other, side by side, and John looks on the verge of falling asleep._ _

__"You look on the verge of falling asleep," Sherlock whispers._ _

__"I'm fine. Keep talking. You were telling me about your...English teacher?"_ _

__"French. Go to sleep, John."_ _

__"But my room is an entire four feet away from yours. I can't walk that far," John whines._ _

__"Call yourself a rugby player," Sherlock scoffs. "Just stay here, then."_ _

__"No, it's fine. I was kidding. Getting up now."_ _

__"I wasn't," Sherlock says quietly. "Kidding, that is."_ _

__John pauses, sitting up now. "Really? You don't mind?"_ _

__"Of course. I probably won't sleep anyway," Sherlock explains._ _

__"Bullshit. You have to sleep."_ _

__"Says who?"_ _

__"Doctors."_ _

__"Mmh, they'll have to cite their source before I can find their claim credible."_ _

__John chuckles, voice low and sleep-heavy, as he climbs under the covers. "Whatever. You can use Mycroft's room if you want to sleep."_ _

__"Absolutely not."_ _

__After several minutes of waiting, quietly pacing the floors, contemplating playing the violin as he normally would when unable to sleep at this time of night, deciding that John would not appreciate being woken up by his violin, and staring occasionally at John's sleeping face, Sherlock relents and crawls into his bed, sure to keep a safe distance away from his bedmate. He's asleep in a matter of seconds._ _

__The next morning they do not discuss sleeping in the same bed together, or even the fact that they woke up clinging to each other like octopi, but they blush and smile over breakfast, giddy with the shared knowledge. When John gets on the train later, Sherlock is satisfied that the trip was not wasted in any way, and he walks away with a confident stride, knowing that this time, the goodbye kiss was much, much more satisfying for both parties involved._ _


	28. July 14th 1996

Dear Sherlock

My family and I are going up to Scotland soon. My dad’s family live up there, so we’ll be staying up there for a week. It’s not exactly France (so jealous you get to go there, by the way. And no, I can’t go with you. Because I’ll be in Scotland at the same time. And it’s your /family/ holiday. I’d just be intruding.) but it’s fun. I’ll get to see my cousins again, which I hardly ever get to do, and I can eat fried mars bars without anyone judging me. Like I know you are now. Stop pulling that face, Sherlock. I mean it.

Anyway, the point is I want you to visit my family before we both end up in a different country. Possibly my friends too but we’ll see. Depends how long you’d want to stay for. 

I haven’t told my family about us yet, and I’d like you to be there when I do. Not just for moral support (though I think I will need it quite a bit). But I also want them to see what an intelligent, brilliant person you are. I’ve told them about you but I feel like words can only tell half the story. You’re a bit indescribable really. In a good way. 

I have told my friends though, if that’s alright. They’re very eager to meet you. 

It’s entirely up to you. I know you may not find it entirely comfortable- I haven’t exactly painted the best picture of family and I know you’re a bit put off hanging out with a bunch of rugby players who probably think Tchaikovsky is a type of salad - but you might enjoy it. If you don’t then I’ll try and make it up to you. 

It’s totally okay if you don’t want to meet anyone. We could just go to the cinema (legally!!!) and save it for another day, when you feel ready.

Anyway, write back soon. But also take your time with coming up with an answer. As long as it takes less than a week. No pressure.

I miss you. 

Your boyfriend,

John x

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops that took longer to write than I thought it would.


	29. July 17th 1996

Dear John

At first, I have to admit, I wasn't particularly keen on meeting your family. This is in no relation to you, but simply the idea of meeting a family at all. And your friends. It seems like a lot of people to offend, which I may inevitably do. 

However, upon consulting some very informative advice books (mostly for people in heterosexual soulmate relationships, if not entirely, but useful nonetheless. ~~There were some chapters which I'd like for us to consult at a later date, perhaps as a way for you to make up to me if my visit to your family goes south~~ . I did get some strange looks from my librarian, though.), I have ~~decided~~ ~~realised~~ read that in order to properly show my true support I should help you in your hour of need ie: coming out to your family. I should also show my commitment to our 'soulmate bond' by 'taking the next step' and meeting the other people in your life. Therefore I will visit your family. And if your parents would let me stay over, your friends.

I suppose we'll have to see whether they do view me in such rose-tinted glasses as you do, John. You're a wonderfully optimistic person and your friends do seem - well, I was going to say nice, but all I can honestly say is that they seem tolerable, or at least more so than the rugby team at my school. Are they really that eager to meet me? 

Have fun in Scotland with your family and your vile fried mars bars and your...haggis and kilts or whatever. I assure you, you would be no intrusion but a welcome distraction from the board games and sightseeing my parents torture me with on holidays. But if you do insist on travelling up to the cold moors of Scotland instead, then who am I to stop you?

I'll see you very soon. 

Sherlock

P.S Legally!? Watching a film?! Ridiculous. You're no fun, John Watson. Where's the boy who sneaked me into a theatre after a botched attempt at getting us in cheaply ~~I fell in lo~~ ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been taking so long to update! Hopefully I will be getting back to semi-regular updating soon.


	30. July 24th 1996

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild homophobia in this chapter

John Watson is late. Very late.

He scrubs at the surface of the counter quickly, glancing at the clock which taunts him with each second that passes, _Sherlock is at the station, waiting for you, and you're here wiping coffee stains, seven minutes late, eight minutes, nine..._

John sighs, praying that Sherlock won't go back home just yet and that he will forgive him, while he curses this stupid job with its stupid tables and stupid customers and stupid salary - 

"Black coffee, two sugars please."

John jumps slightly with a laugh at the voice, looking up with a grin, to see Sherlock smiling back, a beam that crinkles his eyes adorably. _Oh thank God he's not mad at me._ An overnight bag is flung over his shoulder, as they had agreed on when John received confirmation that Sherlock could stay overnight. Suddenly, the afternoon loses its monotony and the empty cafe becomes brighter with the summer sunlight. "God, Sherlock. Sorry. I meant to go to the station to pick you up but two staff members got sick and - "

"It's fine. I knew where you'd be.”

“How? It’s not like I ever told - “ John trails off when he sees the raised eyebrow, the one that says, ‘Please. Don’t humiliate yourself by questioning my methods’. “Right. Sorry. You’re here and that’s what matters.”

“Indeed. I wasn’t joking about the coffee, by the way. The one on the train is appalling and I didn’t have time to make one myself before I left.”

“Lazy git,” John chuckles, not minding in the slightest. “Well, Sherlock Holmes, you’re about to be my last customer of the day. I’m locking up once I’m done clearing up. Shame, really. I was hoping I was going to be done for the day sooner.”

“I guess I owe you, then,” Sherlock smirks, leaning against the counter.

“Mmh. You do. Don’t worry, though. You can make it up to me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And how shall I do that?”

“Two pounds ten, please.”

“Two pounds ten?!” Sherlock splutters while John cackles, the flirtatious atmosphere broken. “That’s the full price!”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Isn’t there a... soulmate discount? Boyfriends discount? At least a friend’s discount, surely.”

John rolls his eyes with a grin, turning back to the coffee machine. “I have a living to earn, you know. Discounts won’t pay for my textbooks. And it’s not like you’re short of money - “

Sherlock’s lips are on his in an instant as he leans over the counter. He pressed their lips together softly, a sweet ‘hello’ kiss that made a small, surprised noise form at the back of John’s throat. (They’re allowed to do this now, John realises, not for the first time, but with the same giddy shock as the first realisation). He’s been craving this - they both have - since he left Sussex. When they break apart, John's arms still around Sherlock's neck, they are blushing and smiling with relief. _Addicts, the both of us_. But then John shakes his head as he separates himself from the other boy. “Nope. Won’t work. Two pounds ten, please.”

Sherlock sighs as he handed over the money. “Worth a shot,” he muttered. “So are we meeting your parents after this?”

“Yup,” John replies as he makes Sherlock’s coffee. “I mean, we could stall for a bit, if you want to. Walk around. Talk. Relax.”

“Run away to Portugal?” Sherlock suggests hopefully.

“Ha! No. Come on, it won’t be that bad.”

“Oh, of course, it won’t. It’s just, you know, your parents, whose approval I have to win and make last for as long as we will continue to be associated with one another. No pressure, of course.” Sherlock’s deadpan voice doesn’t quite hide the anxiety, the nervous way he bites his lower lip and drums his fingers on the counter.

“You’re right, there is no pressure. You just have to be your usual charming self - “

A snort. “Oh, please.”

“I mean it. They’ll love you.” John hands Sherlock the coffee cup, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly.

“You’re very confident for someone about to come out to your parents,” Sherlock remarks. He’s right, John is confident. Or at least trying to be. He’s been distracting himself with his work, wiping down the used coffee machine and counter and tables until they are pristine while reassuring himself that it won’t be all that bad.

“Well, I think it’s going to go alright, actually. I’ve sort of been preparing them a bit, you know? Putting them in the right mindset.”

“How so?” Sherlock asks as he takes a sip of his coffee, making a satisfied hum when he found it to be acceptable (John smiles proudly that his coffee meets Sherlock’s standards.)

“Just subtle things. Like, ‘oh this actor was born in 1967? Coincidentally, that was five years before soulmate journals were legalised between same-sex couples in the UK.’ Or like, ‘you know, I hear that Maurice is a very good movie.’ I haven’t received any responses other than small ‘hmphs’, which I think is progress,” he says optimistically.

“I see. Sounds like a good plan. Though I’m not sure ‘subtle’ is the right word there.”

“Well, you know how oblivious people can be.” 

“And by ‘people’ you mean straight people.”

“Exactly. Sometimes ‘subtle’ means yelling it from the rooftops and people will still say ‘oh wow, what a great ally to the community!”

“Oh, I never experienced that problem. Many people in my year at school knew even before I did.”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course, it was just immature name calling at that point. But you have to give them points for their observation skills.” John gives a weak huff of laughter, decidedly disliking the people in Sherlock’s school less and less (No wonder he was so unsure about meeting John’s friends). Sherlock continued regardless, “And my parents always made sure to use non-gender specific pronouns and terms when regarding my potential soulmate. Though come to think of it, the magazine my parents once found under my bed was probably a bit of a giveaway...”

John chuckles. “Hardly masters of deduction, are they? Anyway, we should probably head out now. Bring your coffee with you.”

“Head out?”

John hangs up his apron in the back room. “To my house. Best get it over and done with, you know?”

Sherlock exhales softly, then nods solemnly, taking another long sip of his coffee like it's liquid courage. “Into battle.”

~

 

John unlocks the door to his flat, which goes instantly into the living room. “Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. We haven’t really had time to tidy up,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he blushes, looking around at the glasses and bottles and plates from last night's meal scattered around the small room.

“John, you saw my room. I’m hardly a neat freak myself, am I?”

“That’s different, and you know it,” he replies, recalling the scattered books and science equipment across the desk. There was a kind of order to the chaos, though. A method to the madness. Like each and every haphazardly placed item had a defined place there.

“Johnny? You there, love?”

“Yeah, Mum. Sherlock is here too.”

Mrs Watson came out of the kitchen, beaming. She shakes Sherlock’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mrs Watson.” Sherlock’s voice has instantly become curt, crisp, defensive, a nervousness that can easily be mistaken for a standoffish personality, and Mrs Watson's face falls slightly. This is the voice that would have spoken Sherlock’s first few letters to John. John cuts across him.

“Is Dad here?”

“Oh yes, he’s just in our room getting changed. You know how muddy he gets after cricket and he wants to look nice for our guest.”

"Or at least, not looking like a fucking troll," A deep voice chuckles as Mr Watson comes into the living room, a large man with a several days old stubble. He shakes Sherlock's hand in a tight grip, judging by the slight wince on Sherlock's face. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr Watson," Sherlock replies. "It's good to meet you, Sir."

"Please, none of that now. I haven't been called 'Sir' since - well, in around twelve years. Mr Watson is fine, for now." He turns on the TV, stretching out on the sofa,

"How kind of you," Sherlock mutters, just loud enough for John to hear over the blare of the TV.

"Terry, do you think you could leave some room for John and his friend?" John can't help but wince at the last word, silently correcting it in his mind: Soulmate, soulmate, soulmate... Mr Watson sits up with an exaggerated groan, but his legs remain obnoxiously spread out.

"Actually, it's alright, Dad. I was just going to show Sherlock around the flat for a bit. Mum, how long until tea's ready?"

"Ten minutes or so, love. Won't be too long."

"Not that you need that much time to show Sherlock around this place," Mr Watson mutters. "You basically live in a palace, right Sherlock?"

"I - no, I don't. It's a normal house."

"Really? John had us believing it's a proper big house. Like something in Poirot."

"Well, your son does have a tendency to romanticise things." 

"Well, I guess we'd better not take his word for other things too." Mr Watson finally looks up at the TV, making eye contact with Sherlock. "He says you're clever."

"That's...less of an exaggeration."

"Well, someone's feeling cocky," He chuckles. "Go on then, tell us something clever. Tell us about...planets or some shit. You're a scientist, aren't you?"

Sherlock stammers, looking visibly uncomfortable. "I prefer chemistry."

"Dad, not now," John cuts in, discreetly pressing his hand against Sherlock. _Let's go, let's leave him. You don't have to be put through this._

"Well, anyone can say stuff about planets. Go on. How many stars are there? What are they made of? Why do planets go around the sun?" Mr Watson says this with a fierce intensity in his eyes, like a challenge. John watches Sherlock, hoping that whatever answer he gives is one that will satisfy Mr Watson.

"I -- I don't know," Sherlock admits, his voice quieter now. John knows this is a weak spot for him, that he got rid of any excess information he didn't wish to understand as soon as he could, especially about the planets and stars. His dad's taunting - whether he was aware of this or not - is cruel.

"No? Huh. Well, get on with the tour, then. And keep it down, you two. I'm watching the telly." 

John quickly ushered him out of the living room and into his bedroom, deciding to postpone seeing the rest of the flat for now. "Are you alright?" He asks quietly as he locks the door.

Sherlock nods, stepping over the blow-up mattress to perch on the edge of John's bed, his overnight bag on the floor. "It's fine. I just wasn't expecting an interrogation, that's all."

"Yeah. Sorry about that. He just wanted to scare you a bit."John sits next to Sherlock and places a hand on top of his. "I think he's intimidated by you."

"Me? A sixteen-year-old giraffe-limbed boy who doesn't know what makes planets go around the sun?" Sherlock snorts with a shake in his voice. "Ridiculous theory."

"I'm serious. I talk about you pretty much all the time, without meaning to, really. You're intelligent. You're...well, you're better off than we are. You have my attention 90% of the time. He doesn't like that."

"I don't understand, is this supposed to be comforting me? 'Oh, it's okay, Sherlock, he just hates you because of an inferiority complex'." Sherlock sighs and rests his head in his hands. "I was this close to deducing him. I could have had the upper hand. But I didn't. Because he didn't seem the type of man to take these things likely. I was intimidated by him, not the other way round."

"Yeah, you and me both," John mumbles. "I'm kind of glad you didn't deduce him, though. I would like it if my dad was in a good mood for dinner. Puts us in a better position."

"Perhaps I'll save it until later, then. So, about that tour of the flat?"

"Yeah, let's do that. They'll get suspicious about why we're spending so much time in my room, otherwise." John stands up with a half-hearted laugh, and Sherlock follows behind him into the hall.

"Right. So. There's the bathroom. There's Mum and Dad's room - we're not allowed in there, by the way. And there's Harry's room. Done." John gestures towards each door in turn. The door to his parent's room is decorated with lines to indicate his and Harry's growth over the years - John's stopped last year, Harry is somehow still growing and has overtaken him by a meagre but vital centimetre, the source of her gloating for several months now. Harry's room's door has the usual, predictable indicators of belonging to a fourteen-year-old, with a poster of an actress John vaguely remembers seeing on TV, a sign that says 'keep out!', and scuffs from when the door was slammed. 

"Where is Harry?" Sherlock asks.

"In there. Probably just listening to music. It's best to just leave her alone until dinner." 

With that, the door opens and Harry stands there, her headphones around her neck. "I heard voices," she said.

John scoffs. "Oh _now_ you hear voices. Where does this magical ability go whenever I'm yelling at you to help out with the dishes?"

"Bring your soulmate to do the dishes and I might just help you out. I'm Harry, by the way," she smiles at Sherlock.

"Sherlock."

"Oh yes, I know. I've been dying to meet you since John told me about you."

"She really has been," John says. "It's weird how obsessed you are with him."

Harry slaps his arm playfully. "You're one to talk. I just wanted to meet the guy that has John smiling like a total idiot every day."

"Okay, thank you, Harry! We'll be in my room if you need us."

Harry grabs his wrist before John turns away. "So are you going to do it then? Tell mum and dad?" She whispers, her eyes wide.

John nods. "Yeah, at dinner. Now or never, right?"

"Good," Harry says firmly, then softer, "I hope it goes alright."

John exhales, trying to calm the nervous flutter in his stomach that insists on arguing that it won't go alright. "Yeah, me too." 

Back in John's room, when they're both lying on John's bed leaning up against the headboard, Sherlock's head on John's shoulders, he asks, "So you told Harry then?"

"Yeah. She asked outright, so I told her. I trust her not to tell anyone until I'm ready to tell them."

"I suppose she has her own personal interest in our relationship."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock gives John A Look. The 'Don't be an idiot' look. "Come on, John. Surely you saw all those actresses and singers and girl groups on her walls?"

"Yeah, so?"

"The distinct lack of men?"

"I - well it's not like I'm allowed in her room enough to properly look. Why?"

Sherlock sighs. "She's a lesbian." John's mouth falls open in a small 'oh' of understanding. Sherlock continues. "As you are her older brother, who also happens to have a boyfriend, she will look to you for guidance about what to do about her own sexuality. Whether to come out. What to do when she turns sixteen and gets a soulmate your parents may not necessarily approve of."

"Surely she should have told me that?"

"Maybe she assumed you already knew. Maybe she was going to wait until after dinner. So, come to think of it, I probably shouldn't have said anything - "

"No, no, it's fine. I'm glad you told me. Now I know not to do anything completely stupid. And I'll still act somewhat surprised when Harry tells me. If she tells me."

"You'll have to improve your acting skills a bit, but yes, you should do that."

"Right. Right." John nods slowly. "So now I have my sister's confidence in my hands as well as my parent's opinion of me. Huh."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock frowns, concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, fine. I just think that maybe I should have taken you up on your offer to run away to Portugal." 

Sherlock giggles slightly. "You'll be fine. Like you said, it's now or never."

"Tea time, boys!" Mrs Watson calls from the kitchen. John sighs.

"Here we go, then."

~

"So, Sherlock,” Mrs Watson begins the conversation with ease. “Tell us about yourself.”

Next to John, Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, like he hadn't prepared at all to be asked this (John supposes that Sherlock spends so much time talking about other people and what he knows about them that he forgets that most people would want to find out about him.) “Well, I’ve been informed that there isn’t very much that John hasn’t already told you.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow at John, who smiles into his pasta dish.

“Well, we’d like to hear it from you. We know how John likes to exaggerate.”

“Yes, a born storyteller, our Johnny.” 

“Ah, well, then. I live in Sussex. I play the violin. I will be taking chemistry, biology, music, and French at A levels. I have an older brother called Mycroft. He’s seven years older than me and works...in the civil service.” It's almost laughable how script-like it sounds, as Sherlock lists the most basic of facts about himself, as though it was for a speaking assessment in French, or when a teacher asks for a paragraph about yourself at the beginning of the year they will never read.

“Any pets?”

Sherlock presses his lips together and shakes his head. John winces at the question - he should have told them about it earlier, to make sure the topic wouldn't come up - and presses his knee against Sherlock's under the table. “No. No pets,” he says finally.

“What do you want to do when you're older?"

"I want to study chemistry at uni," Sherlock admits. "And after that..." Sherlock trails off, unsure whether or not to continue. John cuts in for him, saying proudly, "Sherlock wants to be a detective."

"Really? That's so cool!" Harry exclaims.

"Like working with the police?" Mrs Watson asks.

"Um - no. Not exactly." John can tell that Sherlock is only just managing to conceal the disdained look on his face, the one that makes the crinkle appear on his nose.

"Mmh. Good call. Bastards, the lot of them." Mr Watson nods approvingly. (Dinner is already going swimmingly, in John's opinion.)

"And what about your parents?"

"My mum was a mathematics professor at Oxford until she had my brother. My dad works in the civil service too."

"God, a family of proper geniuses, aren't you?" Harry breathes. 

"Well, it's wonderful that John has such a nice friend," Mrs Watson says cheerfully. Sherlock glances in John's direction. _Now?_

John nods back. _Now_. "Boyfriend, actually," He corrects casually.

The atmosphere isn't so casual after that. 

A pregnant silence settles over the room, constricting John and sticking him to his seat, as though a window has been shut. He resists the urge to pull at his collar as he waits with baited breath for a response, his heart in his throat. Everyone seems to have stopped breathing for the moment. Mercifully, it's Mrs Watson who breaks the silence, voice quiet and weak.

"So, you two..."

"Yes."

"You are...."

"Yes."

"How - how long?"

"Since - well, about a month, I think?"

"We started using the term boyfriend on June 23rd, but I suppose technically we confessed to romantic feelings towards one another a little before that. And we kissed - "

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"You kissed?!" 

John's fists clench around his cutlery as he addresses his dad, trying his best to rein himself in. "Yes, fine. We kissed. Like boyfriends _do_. What's so difficult to understand?"

"Why now?! You went out with... Whatshername didn't you? And Tilly and Samantha?"

"That was before Sherlock. Before I got my journal. Besides, Tilly was from when I was _eight_. Hardly counts, does it?"

"Even so, you can't just suddenly...change your mind!" Mr Watson exclaims. "It's only since you've been talking to - to _him_ that you've decided to date boys."

"Actually, I've wanted to date boys since I was thirteen. But that's not the point! You think that Sherlock somehow, what, mind controlled into going out with him?"

"Don't be ridiculous, mind control doesn't exist."

"Oh, because that's the most ridiculous part of this conversation!"

"Your father is just saying, John, that there's no need for you to commit so quickly," Mrs Watson explains calmly, but it still makes John's blood boil. "You two could still just be friends. There's no pressure for you to be in a relationship so soon after you started writing to one another."

"Ha! Like you two were any better. Like anyone was any better! Sherlock and I want to go out. That's the whole point!"

"Sit down, John!" Mr Watson yells, and it's only then that John realises that he has stood up in the heat of the moment, breathing heavily, his face flushed. He also realises that next to him, Sherlock s staring at his lap, fiddling with his fingers, and opposite him, Harry's bottom lip is wobbling as she twirls her spaghetti around her fork, over and over. He sits down again and Mr Watson continues. "Right. Now then. Why don't we just calm down and talk about this rationally?"

"If you want to be rational, you could just, oh I don't know, accept that I have a boyfriend now? Who also happens to be my soulmate. We're compatible, you know. It's - it's meant to be. How could you possibly argue with that?"

"Bullshit. It's just some PC bullshit agenda from the government to get the gays to stop complaining. If two men were meant to be soulmates, they'd be able to have kids. That's what the soulmate programme is there for."

"It's not the fucking middle ages anymore! We hardly need to be encouraging increasing the population at this point."

"Boys, please." Mrs Watson interrupts impatiently. "Look, I think you both need some time to think this through. You'd better go outside John. Take Sherlock with you. Get some fresh air - "

"I'm not the one who needs to do some thinking," John mutters. "But fine. Can we take Harry with us?" Tears are falling silently down her face. Between hers and their father's temper, this isn't the safest place to be.

"Certainly not! She can stay here with us, where it's safe."

"Safe from what - oh, I see. Safe from us. From the two boyfriends. From our 'PC bullshit agenda'. Don't want her getting influenced by the wrong sort, right?" John sneers.

"Harry, go to your room," Mrs Watson advises quickly, and Harry can't leave her seat fast enough. The bedroom door slams behind her. "Both of you, go now. We'll talk later. Or in the morning. Whenever we've calmed down enough to discuss this."

"Fine." John and Sherlock get up out of their seats towards the door. As they leave, John vaguely hears his father's voice mutter, "I told you he should have reapplied for a new journal."

When John shuts the door, he walks and walks, Sherlock only just managing to keep up with his speed due to his long legs. "John! John, wait!" He stops as soon as he leaves the building and fresh air and the orange sunset hits his flushed face, then leans back against the building's walls as he tries to process the strange cocktail of anger and humiliation and sadness and...relief. Like a weight has been taken off his shoulders now that his secret is out in the open, and apparently, his parents' opinions. He eventually turns back to Sherlock.

"I'm sorry. That didn't go very well in there," he admits. "I thought I could control myself, set a good example for Harry, get through dinner without shouting at some point. Turns out I couldn't."

"It's okay. I understand."

John shakes his head. "And I went and brought you into it. And Harry too. God, I should have just done this on my own. I did nothing but make you both feel super uncomfortable." John sighs. "I'm a crap brother and a crap boyfriend."

"No, you're not, John. You were defending me. I'd rather you did that than just...agree with your father in order to appease him. And there was little you could have said that wouldn't have shown your parents' true colours."

John offers a weak smile. "Thanks. Oh, and I'm sorry for telling you to shut up. That was uncalled for."

"No, it was called for. Besides, it's hardly the first time I've had to be reminded to keep my mouth shut," Sherlock shrugs. John hates how casual he is about it., but before he can open his mouth to protest Sherlock speaks in a rush."I should probably go. My being here any longer than I need to be won't help things, and - "

"Hey, hey, no. You've come all this way. You've had a pretty awful time here. I want to make it up to you." John squeezes Sherlock's hand. "What do you want to do? Anything. Besides, your stuff is back at the flat, so we don't have much of a choice but to stay outside for a bit."

"What about your friends? Haven't you already arranged to go and see them."

"They'll understand. Large crowds really aren't your scene, right?"

"No. But they're your friends, and comparatively speaking, your evening has been a lot worse than mine. You like them, and you often go to them when you're in a bad mood or when you need support. I'm guessing that has been rather frequent due to issues at home. And I think, if they're good enough for you to trust them enough to do that, they're good enough for me." 

John's face softens and he swears that he can feel his heart melting in his chest. He stands on his tiptoes and pulls Sherlock down for a kiss. _God, I think I love you._ "I - thank you. But no. I don't want to see you miserable anymore. Some other time. For now, we're going to get fish and chips, because I didn't get to finish my dinner." John takes his hand in his as they walk proudly, out in the open, and for everyone to see. 

~

When they come home several hours later, when the sky has turned dark, the blow-up mattress has been moved from John's room to the living room, clearly a compromise on Mr Watson's half instead of kicking Sherlock directly out of the flat. John's stomach sinks at the sight of it, the clear symbolism of it, before going into his bedroom to pass Sherlock's things to him and get into pyjamas.

He knocks on the door of the bathroom as Sherlock brushes his teeth, dressed in pyjamas with the t-shirt inside out. When John raises a questioning eyebrow, Sherlock sighs and hisses quietly, "The tag irritates my skin!" John giggles slightly, making sure to keep quiet for the people in the flat sleeping. As they brush their teeth, their shoulders bump, sending warm tingles up John's spine in the quiet comfort of the room. _Intimacy_ , his mind helpfully supplies him with as a word for what is happening.

Once they're done, Sherlock lingers at the threshold of John's room, looking towards the living room, but swaying on the balls of his feet. "So. I'll see you in the morning, then." He whispers, barely audible.

"Yeah, yeah. Unless - unless you wanted to sleep here?"

Sherlock gapes slightly at the suggestion. "Your mum and dad would hardly approve."

"Yeah, well," John shrugs. "Sod that."

There's a moment where Sherlock is considering his options, his eyes darting as though he can see the possible scenarios in front of him: if they get caught, if they don't get caught... John wishes he could say the same, but at this point, he's lost his ability to care. Any other day, he would be imagining if Mrs Watson came in early to wake them up to find them defiantly snuggled together, if Mr Watson saw them coming out of the same room over the top of his morning newspaper. Tonight, he does a little thinking as possible. Finally, he nods. "Alright, then. I'd like that."

John grins as Sherlock enters the room and climbs into John's bed, and then John follows after. The bed is narrower than Sherlock's, but they don't particularly mind when they curl up into each other, legs tangled and arms resting on the other boy's stomach. 

"Now what?"

"Now we sleep. It's probably best if we get up early tomorrow. Get you on the train sooner rather than later."

"Agreed."

The bed is hot and stuffy with the temperature of the two bodies, and John is sometimes woken up by an elbow nudging against his skin or the weight of a limb on his stomach or the tickle of curls against his nose, but each time he wakes up, he smiles and settles down to sleep with one thought in his head.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to put in a scene with John's friends being kind and supportive, but I couldn't quite find a way to fit it into the chapter (without also adding an extra 2000 words which frankly I was too lazy to have in the same chapter) so maybe we'll get to meet them at a later date.


	31. July 25th 1996

Dear John

I wanted to check on you as soon as I could. I know you told me not to worry, but frankly you ushering me out of the flat at seven this morning wasn’t much of a reassurance (and don’t expect me to believe that ‘it will be awkward at breakfast otherwise’ is the whole truth). I’m not angry at you for doing so, by the way, before you go apologising for it. I just need to know that you’re okay. And no, I’m not overreacting. I’ve heard too many horror stories of misapproving parents of ‘forbidden soulmates’ to not be this worried - though they were probably exaggerated by people in my year. 

My offer for you to stay in Sussex still stands. Bring Harry too, if needs be. Speaking of whom, I don’t suppose she has said anything yet, has she? I don’t think I am ‘jumping to conclusions’ by saying it’s best if you stay out of the way of your parents as long as they continue to think those things about me. About us. 

~~I know what they said just as we were leaving last night. About them wanting you to apply for a new soulmate. I hate the idea of you doing that, of receiving that letter telling me to look for someone else and to reapply into the system again. I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else as my soulmate. But for you, I occasionally wonder if it would have been better for you to be matched with someone else, someone norm~~

In fact, my parents have said it’s okay - I didn’t tell them myself, but they have a remarkable ability to read people, the way you do, despite them not being ‘masters of deduction’, as you had put it yesterday. Apparently, it was rather easy for them to know that yesterday hadn’t gone so well. 

Please, write back as soon as you can. Or call. I would call but if your parents picked up I’m not sure how likely it is for them to pass the message on. 

Your boyfriend, 

Sherlock 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments have made my day, guys! Sorry for the recent angst btw.


	32. July 25th 1996 - part 2

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me. I read your letter.”

“Good. So, you’re okay? You don’t sound okay. You sound a bit tired.”

“Well I did decide to wake us up at seven in the morning on a school holiday. Rather stupid of me, really. Unless I’m working, I rarely get up before twelve.”

“It wasn’t that stupid. Okay, fine, yes it was a bit. But you had good intentions.”

“Thanks. Did you get home safe?”

“I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I? I could have hardly been run over and am now comatose in hospital - “

“Alright, just checking. Don’t mind me, just being a considerate boyfriend. Speaking of which, I haven’t really thanked you enough.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is. Trust me. You’ve been super concerned about me and offering for me to stay with you and asking about Harry and it’s more than I ever could expect. By the way, I have sort of taken your advice.”

“Sort of?”

“I have decided to stay away from home for a little while, except I’m staying at Liam’s house for a couple of days. He offered when I told him about what happened and my parents didn’t protest, so here I am.”

“Good. That’s good. Mildly disappointing that you’re not on the train here but your safety comes first.”

“Aw, how sweet of you.”

“And Harry?”

“She’s staying at a friend’s house too. She hasn’t spoken to me yet.”

“Give it time.”

“Yeah but, it would be nice if she could talk to me, you know? Solidarity, and all that. We’re facing the same problems in the same household.”

“Well, you always have me to talk to, if you want solidarity. And your friends. You’ve already spoken to Liam.”

“Yeah. His brother's soulmate went through pretty much the same thing, so he knows what to do. But it’s my _sister._ I want us to be the type of siblings who can just talk about these things. Not the kind who will phone each other out of obligation once a month when we go our separate ways to uni.”

“I can’t say I relate much with my own sibling, who I’m very much happy seeing only a few times a year when he visits, but I suppose what you want is perfectly reasonable.”

“Mmh, do you think you could go for more than 24 hours without slagging off your brother? You spoke about him last night, you know. Something about his failed diet.”

“Why would I ever deny myself the satisfaction of complaining about him when I deem it relevant?”

“Because...this is a phone call about me complaining about my own home life?”

“Fair enough. Continue with your complaints. Have you spoken much with your parents?”

“Oh, we’ve spoken, alright. At breakfast they kept asking these weird questions, like if it was serious between us and whether I’ve had boyfriends before - I can’t tell if it was a weird cross examination that will ‘qualify’ me into keeping my status as a bisexual, or if it’s their own way of trying to take interest. And then they had the fucking audacity to ask if I wanted to reapply into the system.”

“Oh. What did you say?”

“No, of course. What else could I say? As well as the fact that it’s a six month waiting list, and I would likely be matched up with someone younger than me, I don’t want another soulmate! I don’t understand how they don’t understand it yet. The system matched us up, we’re compatible by at least 97%, and they somehow think I’m making all this up! And somehow I’ve brought the government into my ‘phase’.”

“Ridiculous.”

“So things escalated. Again. We yelled at each other. Again. I stormed out, went to Liam’s house, and he offers for me to stay, so I can keep out of my parents’ way for a while. So yeah, here I am.”

“Right. I see. What about your trip up to Scotland?”

“Yeah, I’m still going to that. My parents don’t want my aunts and uncles and cousins talking - it’s an annual tradition, so I can’t just suddenly excuse myself for any reason. Also, I suppose they will have calmed down by then and gotten used to the idea... You know, I thought us being out of the house for six hours straight would have been enough. We were out in the dark! Past curfew! Any other time, my parents would have flipped, but nooo, just because my soulmate and the person I love happens to have a pe-“

“The person you what?”

“The... uh - what did I say again? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

“The person you love.”

“Oh right. Shit. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s...okay. Really.”

“You don’t have to say it back or anything. I didn’t even mean to say it, it just sort of slipped out.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

“No, I did. I do. But I didn’t mean to say it in the middle of a rant about my parents.”

“But you do? Love me, that is.”

“...Yes. I do.”

“And this isn’t just the result of you being highly emotional all day or a subconscious way of rebelling against your parents’ disapproval or teenage hormones or the influence of alcohol or something?”

“I don’t drink alcohol, you know that. And it’s two in the afternoon, who drinks at that time?”

“Some might. But you haven’t answered the rest of my question.”

“No, it’s not because I’m emotional or because I’m rebelling - this is me confessing my love to you, not me piercing my nose, dying my hair purple, and tattooing the gay pride flag on my arse.”

“Which I would fully support.”

“Yeah, thanks. But anyway, it wouldn’t be fair to drag you and your feelings into my parental issues. I suppose technically it is hormones - oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, adrenaline - “

“Don’t try and distract me with your attractively accurate use of scientific terms.”

“...I wasn’t trying to, but I’ll keep that in mind for another time. Seriously, Sherlock, I know this is poor timing, but it doesn’t make it any less true.” 

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I love you too.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Now it feels like you’re just saying that to make me feel better.” 

“I’m really not. In fact, I can prove it.”

“...I don’t think this is something you can actually - “

“July 15th. At the end of the letter I crossed a bit out. When I was complaining about you wanting to do something as mundane as go to the cinema.” 

“Oh right. I just assumed it was a spelling error you crossed out.”

“I never make spelling errors. No, I was going to say ‘where’s the boy I fell in love with?’ So there. Proof. Exhibit A. So on and so forth.”

“Oh. Oh! So why did you cross it out?”

“I didn’t mean to write it. It just sort of...happened. And I didn’t want to scare you off entirely just yet.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“Well _now_ I know that.”

“You really need more faith in me. And you need to stop crossing things out. You did in the last letter too. Who knows what important things I’m missing out on?”

“They’re not important. They’re incredibly pathetic.”

“Oh, come on, please?”

“....Maybe another time. In person. Maybe.”

“That’s good enough for me. God. Wow. I love you. You love me. It’s great, isn’t it?”

“It is. Not as much of a big deal as the movies make it out to be, though.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not swooning or crying. You haven’t dropped the phone in shock and instantly run off to the train station, fuelled only by the exciting revelation and your determination to see me, so you can run into my arms and kiss me and sweep me off my feet - “

“Well someone has been watching too many rom coms.”

“I have done no such thing. Mummy watches them. I can’t help it if I happen to be in the room at the same time.”

“Mmh-mmh, sure, Sherlock. Well, it’s either that or you miss me.”

“Ridiculous. I saw you not five hours ago.”

“I know. But then again, you’ve mentioned twice now about me surprising you by coming to visit. It’s okay, you know. I miss you too.”

“Pfft. Ridiculous. You’re completely ridiculous.”

“Yes, But so are you.”

“...Maybe. A little.” 

“Good. So. I’ll see you when you get back from France, yeah?”

“Yes. One week. So soon.”

“Not soon enough, in my opinion.”

“I agree. Have fun in Scotland.”

“Have fun in France. I love you.”

“I - I love you too.”


	33. July 28th 1996

Dear Sherlock,

I hope you're having a good time in France and you're not getting too bored. I'm having a pretty good time here in Scotland, myself. The weather is way too cold here, I've eaten far too many Mars Bars and drank too much Irn Bru and my parents haven't spoken to me except to ask me to pass them the salt, but it's still pretty good. We've been going swimming in the outdoor swimming pool which, surprisingly, isn't too cold once you're in. I'm yet to die of hypothermia so let's see how that goes. 

I haven't realised how much I've missed seeing my aunt and uncle and cousins. My aunt Karen is especially sweet. She asks about you a lot, whether we get on, how things are going. I told her the truth and she didn't react any differently. Honestly, I need that at the moment. And my cousins, though exhausting in how energetic they all are, are great. They're all younger than me - one is only eight months old - and keep running around everywhere. They're all curious about my soulmate too, asking if you're my boyfriend and if we're getting married and if you prefer dragons or dinosaurs (That was Archie. He's five years old and going through a bit of an obsession with dragons and dinosaurs.) They also treat it like it's entirely normal, me having a boyfriend. It's funny how different my aunt's family is to mine, despite growing up in the same household as my dad. It's best not to dwell on that, though. 

There is some progress in my parents, however. It's marginally less tense and awkward, and when Karen said "Isn't it nice that John is so happy with his soulmate," my mum nodded. Nodded! Granted, she could have looked a bit less like she was sucking a lemon while she did so, but I honestly think she's getting used to the idea. I suppose she has plenty of time to get used to it, as I would quite like to keep you as my boyfriend for as long as possible.

Karen reminded me the other day, actually that Soulmates Day is coming up. Well, it's not until August, but it's good to plan ahead. I don't know how your family normally celebrate it, but at ours we sort of do a big party. Decorations, music, dinner, the lot. Mum and Dad's family come round, and we're allowed to invite some friends round, if their parents are doing something on their own to celebrate. I think this year my friends may be bringing their soulmates too, if they can get them to agree to come. We don't have to go to it, if you'd prefer to do something else, but I thought it would be a good idea to throw that idea out there. If you have any other ideas, don't hesitate to say. 

Write back soon with your stories from France. Is it sunnier there than it is here? Have you been visiting lots of art museums and historic sites and whatever else it is an intelligent family does on holiday? Have you eaten any snails yet? If so - you poor thing. 

Love,

Your boyfriend, John xx


	34. July 29th 1996

Dear John,

I'm glad you've managed to enjoy yourself, despite the freezing conditions and the awkward situation with your parents. After all that has happened, you deserve a distraction for a little while and having a supportive extended family who treat you as they normally would. It's a shame, though, that they live so far away. You'd probably want to visit them more often if your parents continue giving you the silent treatment. Although, speaking of your parents, I do expect they should be getting used to the idea soon. They won't have any choice, if indeed, you do plan on keeping me around for a while like you say. (I have no problem with this plan and the feeling is entirely mutual, by the way). Besides which, it's possible that your aunt and uncle's family have had an influence.

I haven't been too bad here in France. Yes, it is sunnier here than in Scotland. Shocking. Mummy has been trying to get me to 'enjoy the sunshine' and not 'lock myself away in my room'. What she doesn't realise is that I've been 'locking myself away' for my own health and safety. I burn very easily, and who knows the kind of impact that has on my health? Not to mention the vast number of times my being outdoors has led to scrapes and fights and all sorts. (Though that was more to do with my general personality than being outdoors.) But surely, as a mother, she should care about the well-being of her son???)

We haven't visited any museums but father is keen on seeing a cathedral nearby. I can't remember what he said was so interesting about it and nor do I want to. I've found that if he wants to start talking history I have no choice but to block it from my mind, for the sake of my will to live. But so far on holiday, we've done little except stay near the villa. I'm perfectly content to stay here for as long as possible, and not go to any historic towns or cathedrals or anything else outside. And no, I don't plan on eating any snails. Father has tried to convince me to try one and get over my 'fussy eating'. Frankly, I don't see anything abnormally fussy about not wanting to eat garlic covered slime. 

Regarding Soulmates day, I've never found anything particularly special about it. To me, Soulmates Day just means getting the house to myself as my parents go on a weekend trip away - to Paris or Rome or Brussels, for example - , as long as I don't use the oven or try any potentially dangerous experiments. I'm aware for others it's a special celebration of their love/friendship/the concept of soulmates in general, but I don't really see a need to be so public about it. However, as this is a tradition for you, as eating nothing but sandwiches for meals for an entire weekend is for me, I will go to your soulmate party. It will be as good an opportunity as any to meet your friends, and maybe even try again with your parents.

(But I wouldn't mind at all if you said you'd rather stay with me. Do you cook? My parents would trust you with the ovens, and I would get to eat something that isn't bland and uncooked for once. It would also mean not having to socialise with so many people, particularly so many drunk people. Also: house. Empty. Whole weekend. Just us two. You can decide for yourself what the benefits of that would be.)

...No, I'm not biased towards any one of those options. 

See you very soon.

Love, Sherlock

P.S. Tell Archie that I prefer dragons.


	35. August 27th 1996

“I hope you realise how little I enjoy doing this.”

“Of course I do. Keep going, though. It’s not going to blow itself, you know.”

Sherlock makes a whine in protest, but blows into the balloon anyway, ties the knot at the end and throws it away lazily, watching it float towards the collection of pink and purple and red and white balloons covering the floor around the hall. The same colour scheme hangs in banners around the room, the paper chains, the tablecloth which would later be covered in buffet food. Judging from the way Sherlock wrinkled his nose when they first got the decorations out of the boxes, this is a colour scheme he will grow very sick of, very quickly, if, indeed, he hasn't already. 

“There. Done. Surely there can’t be any more balloons needed? They're bloody _everywhere_. At this point, there won’t be any room for people to arrive... Actually, in that case, let’s do some more balloons.”

John laughs as Sherlock reaches for another packet of balloons to open. He steps down from his chair, where he was stood to hang up paper chains, which is now a routine embedded into him after sixteen years of Soulmate Day parties. “Come on. You promised you would help with the preparation before the party.”

“With the assumption that I wouldn’t have to attend later.”

“You also promised you would try to meet my friends. And maybe interact with my parents at least twice without causing an argument.” John pouts, kneeling in front of Sherlock, his chin resting his hands on Sherlock’s knee. “Please stay. For me?”

Sherlock pauses to consider, his eyes narrowed at John - who is giving him an innocent, wide-eyed stare, a small smile on his lips - then sighs. “I hate that that works, but fine. For you.”

John grins, his eyes bright. “Thank you.” He kneels up to kiss Sherlock quickly, grateful and reassuring. "I get that you're nervous, you know. It's a big deal."

"Who said anything about me being nervous?"

"Literally everything about you." Sherlock has been distracted from the moment he arrived at the train station, practically speedwalking to the hall and refusing a coffee break or any time to catch up. When John got out the boxes of decorations and opened them, despite any initial protestations, he had hurriedly helped, focused only on the task in front of him, working with immaculate detail. As though the party would come sooner and be done with if he finished early. Or maybe as a distraction - John couldn't tell. 

"Fine, perhaps I am a little...apprehensive. Still, aren't you? I mean, how did your parents react when you told them I was coming?"

"I didn't."

A moment of silence, Sherlock blinking owlishly as he comprehends what John had said. "What?"

"I haven't told them. I just sort of hoped that you would blend into the background long enough to get them tipsy and therefore slightly more sociable. Then you'll blend back in when they have more to drink and have lowered inhibitions."

"That is the most ridiculous plan I have ever heard." 

"Yes, well, it's not exactly been peace and rainbows all around, has it? Yes, we're having conversations and even sharing a couple of jokes now, but I feel like we're on a bit of a tight-rope situation, you know?"

"And the way to stay 'balanced' so to speak, was to bring me to a party? In a public situation? With all your friends? When I am most likely to insult or accidentally offend someone?"

"Yes! They'll be more likely to be nicer to you if other people are there. And it's Soulmates Day. Everyone's in a good mood on Soulmate's Day."

"Really? I must have missed that memo."

Despite himself, the corner of John's lips twitches in amusement. "You will be in a good mood by tonight. You like dancing, the food's always decent. And my friends are really, really nice. You'll love them. And they'll love you."

"Can't imagine why."

"Git. Well, I can. Despite what you seem to think, Sherlock Holmes, you can be likeable."

"Well, I'm glad my soulmate thinks I 'can be likeable'."

John beams. "You're welcome. Okay," John stood up, putting his hands on his hips and surveying the room. I think we’re done here. People are bringing food later, Sarah and Jonathan have lights, and Darren from across the road is DJing - ”

“Is he any good?”

“He’s shit at it, but at least he does it for free. So yeah, there’s nothing more we can do until the actual party." John held his hand out for Sherlock to take when he stood up. "Let's go home and change."

The two walk back to the flat hand in hand, ignoring the sweltering August weather that makes any kind of skin contact practically unbearable, even at this point in the evening. To them, it was the several-week-long absence of skin contact that had been unbearable, or even the absence of just seeing each other. They hugged at their reunion, grinning excitedly, even kissing in public. Though the whole atmosphere of Soulmates Day certainly helped - the advertisements in the windows, the constant love songs on the radio, other reunions going on around them. Any passersby, instead of shaking their heads or looking away awkwardly at the open displays of affection, simply ignored them, understanding that they are soulmates and therefore it is slightly more tolerable than usual this time of year.

They enter the flat and go to separate rooms to change. John had insisted that Sherlock really didn't need to - he always looks like he was going to a semi-formal event anyway - but Sherlock had shaken his head insistently. "Unless you want me in sweaty clothes that have been on a stuffy train, I'm changing. Besides, social etiquette generally dictates that the colour scheme..."

John comes out of his room a little while later, refreshed and in new clothes - a blue shirt he had worn every year since he was fourteen, and still managed to fit into, though rugby playing had made it tighter, straining around his biceps and chest. _Good,_ John thinks to himself. _Serves Sherlock right._ He rolls the sleeves up to his elbows, puts product in his hair and forms it into 'the swoop' as Harry had dubbed it, then waited for Sherlock in the living room

Sherlock comes out afterwards, in his purple shirt - _the_ purple shirt - his hair previously made frizzy by Summer heat, now tamed into curls. John doesn’t disguise the appreciative look in his eye as he smiles up at him, and nor does Sherlock for him.

"You know, I'm starting to think that Soulmate Day should come round more often, if it means you wearing that more often," Sherlock says lightly. He collapses onto the sofa, his feet resting on John's thighs, while his head rests on the arm.

"For me, every day is Soulmate day with you," John grins, his voice taking on a teasing affliction with the knowledge of the overused and cheesy line, the one paraphrased in countless films and novels and songs. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"And yet you stick with those ridiculous jumpers and plaid shirts."

"I'm afraid, if I didn't I would be utterly irresistible. People would flood from all over to come and see John Watson in the blue shirt, crowd around him wherever I go - "

"Stop."

"The ugly jumpers are the only way of diluting my charm." John feigns a sigh. "It's a curse, really."

"And people say I'm the narcissist."

"I'm just saying, that for the sake of my honour and your trust in me, the jumpers and shirts stay on."

"Well then, I suppose I just would have to keep you indoors, within my sight at all times.” Sherlock crawls over and rests his head on John’s shoulder, ever the cuddler, even in this heat. “There are worse views to have, I suppose.”

John grins, lifting Sherlock's head up into a kiss. “And there are worse people to spend locked away forever with.”

~

When they arrive later - having flattened down their hair ruffled by the other's hands, smoothed down the creases in their clothes caused by the risen up shirts and being pressed against the sofa - many have already arrived. They are mostly stood in groups or pairs, either simply talking or awkwardly bobbing their heads in time with the music, not yet confident or drunk enough to actually start dancing. In one corner there is Mr and Mrs Watson, talking to another couple with Mr Watson's hand protectively placed on his partner's lower back. In the other corner are John's friends with their soulmates, chatting and laughing together. John looks over at Sherlock questioningly, and he nods reassuringly. _Let's do it._ He smiles back and takes Sherlock's hand, then leads him towards his friends.

When his friends turn around they immediately greet John with cheers, pats on backs, hugs. "We were wondering when you were going to get here," says Liam - a boy on his rugby team, currently accompanied by his soulmate Rebecca, who smiles awkwardly at him. John wonders if he could get her and Sherlock to talk, in case they ever feel left out at any point in the evening.

"Yeah, sorry, we got a bit delayed." John winks in Sherlock's direction, who then blushed and subconsciously flattens his hair down again. Under the dim lighting and purple and green lights moving dizzyingly about the room, the blush is barely distinguishable to most. "Sherlock, this is Liam, Robert, Rebecca, Amy, and Samantha."

"Oh! You're Sherlock!" Amy - a girl from John's physics and German classes. - grins up at Sherlock, who is considerably taller than her. "It's so nice to meet you, finally."

"Oh. He's been talking about me?" Sherlock asks, trying to keep his tone casual, but there was a slight panic in his voice, in the way his eyes darted to John.

"Relax, only good stuff," Samantha says reassuringly - from John's maths and English class, and also Amy's soulmate. "You should hear him. He's like...Shakespeare when he talks about you. Or Petrarch."

"Who?"

"Oh, he was a renaissance poet who was obsessed with this girl and - "

"Anyway, moving on," John cuts in quickly. Obsessed is a bit much, isn't it? "This is Amy and Samantha, they're soulmates, Liam and Rebecca, they're soulmates too. And there's Robert. Whose soulmate isn't here."

"Yeah, Robert, where's Lucy?"

"She has her own traditions and stuff." He shrugs. "Besides, have you any idea how expensive plane tickets are to get from Ohio to England? It's insane."

"Aw, poor, lonely, Robert," Liam teases. 

"Shut up. I'm not lonely," he says, as he downs some of his beer. "We'll be speaking on the phone later."

"Not the same, though, is it?"

"No. But it's okay. She says she might have saved enough by October. I'm making the best of what I have."

" _All alone on soulmates day,_ " Amy sings.

" _No one here to chase the blues away._ " The others join in, then dissolve into laughter. Even Sherlock can't contain a small smile, having heard the song once or twice on the radio. Robert rolls his eyes, concealing a grin.

"Shut up. Look, can we talk about something else? Like Sherlock again. Back to Sherlock."

"Fine. Sherlock, you're the only one we haven't met yet, did you know that?."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Even Lucy-From-Ohio visited a couple of months ago. Why haven't you visited yet?"

John cuts in quickly, "He just didn't want to see all your ugly mugs. Oh, except you, Amy. You're an angel and a blessing and we're delighted you're here."

"Yes, I know."

"Have you been busy solving crimes?" Samantha asks curiously.

"I - uh - "

"Oh yeah, John said that you solve crimes."

"On the rare occasion that they occur where I live, and when the police allow me to get involved."

"He solved a robbery a few months ago," John said proudly.

"Ooh, a robbery?"

"Tell us about it."

While Sherlock launches into an explanation of how he solved the case, the others listen in awe, all attention focused on him, butting in occasionally with questions. Slowly, he relaxes, his posture becoming less tense and his eyes becoming less defensive. He grins as he came to the climax of his story, when all became revealed, and the audience responds with appropriate enthusiasm. John can do nothing except grin up at him, besotted and proud. 

"Bloody hell," is all Robert can say when Sherlock finished.

"It's stupid the police wouldn't let you get involved. Can you imagine how much less crime there would be if you caught all the criminals?"

"But then I wouldn't have a job."

"You could pursue other hobbies. You play the violin, right?"

"Yes, but I can't make a career out of it."

"Why? You not good?"

"I'm very good. I simply dislike working in ensembles and orchestras. There's always an idiot who can't pay attention and holds everyone up. Frankly, that's normally a trumpet player."

"Hey, my sister's a trumpet player."

Sherlock turns pale as he stammers around an apology to Liam. "Ah. My apologies, I didn't - "

"I mean, it's true. I play saxophone with her in jazz band, and the trumpets always get timing wrong at one point or another."

Sherlock visibly relaxes with the knowledge that he hasn't screwed up just yet. "Yes. My point exactly."

"What about someone who deduces people for entertainment? John said you could do that. Deducing, I mean." 

"Well, it's not necessarily entertaining. I often end up insulting someone and accidentally unveiling some kind of scandal."

"Turn it into a magic show, then," Amy suggests. "Add a cloak and some jazz hands and everyone's happy."

"I'm not doing jazz hands in front of an audience."

"Your loss. Hey, do you think you could deduce us?"

Sherlock blinks owlishly. "Sorry?"

"Deduce us. All of us."

"Really? Even after the thing I just said about normally insulting people?"

"We have thick skin, we can handle it."

Samantha chuckles. "Amy, you cried when I told you I didn't think green suits you."

"Green brings out my eyes, you dick! Besides, that was in year 7. Anyway, Sherlock, I don't think there's anything you can say here that we haven't already told each other. Go on, do your worst."

"Oh - okay. Right. So, Amy first, as you asked. You're pursuing a career in photography, but your parents want you to become a lawyer, despite your English and history grades clearly showing that you lack the academic discipline required to study law. You met everyone here in your first year of secondary school, having moved here from Birmingham. You have a tendency to speak loudly, and have been kicked out of class two - no, three - times because of it. Some people think that this is to cover up your insecurity about your height - what are you, four foot ten? - when actually it's due to the loud volume you listen to music with causing damage to your hearing. I highly suggest you get that checked out before it worsens and you have to resort to sign language and lip reading."

"Jesus."

"Samantha, you want to study English lit at university, but you don't know where to go from there. You're hoping to stay in education as long as possible before you run into debt or your parents' generosity runs thin. You're Amy's soulmate, yet you're more comfortable here than Rebecca or me, which means you spend considerably more time here than us. In fact, I'll go as far as to say you have been going to the same school for years and it is only by coincidence that you two were matched as soulmates."

Amy squeezes Samantha's hand, beaming lovingly at her. "Not coincidence. Fate."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and Samantha did the same, except with more fondness. "Oh, please."

"Come on, even you have to admit there's something romantic about that," John points out. "They were obsessed with each other for two years. And even then it took them a whole month of writing to realise who it was they were writing to."

"No, we knew before then."

"Babe, we really didn't."

"Anyway, moving on to Liam. You play rugby with John, but you are far more interested in your music. In fact, I'd go as far as to say you don't actually like rugby, only the fact that whenever you...score a goal?"

"Try."

"Yes, I am trying, but I don't actually understand rugby. Well, whenever you are successful at whatever it is you do in that sport, your parents pay you. You're saving up for driving lessons, so soon you will be able to drive up to Cardiff and visit your soulmate whenever you like.

"Speaking of soulmate, Rebecca - you're from Cardiff - that was originally just a guess but Liam confirmed it. It took you a while to grow to like Liam, so much so you almost considered applying for a new one. However, something put you off reapplying - possibly the time delay it takes to match you with someone new, but maybe it was a horror story from a family friend about reapplication. So you stuck it out. It was when Liam did a grand, romantic gesture you were assured that he was 'the one' so to speak. I'd guess that it was buying you that necklace you're currently wearing."

"Wait, you didn't like me?"

Rebecca falters. "I didn't _not_ like you. I just...had to warm up to you a bit. And now I have."

"Okay, fair enough. But why didn't you like me?"

"Shush, Sherlock hasn't done me yet."

"Right. Robert. You're also a rugby player, very dedicated. You're a swimmer too. In fact, you are training to take part in a triathlon, but you never learned to cycle as a child and your balance is too appalling for your coaches to have any kind of faith in you. You're one of the rare few who have been matched with someone so far abroad - I imagine it is your stubbornness and mildly aggressive nature that made you difficult to pair up with. However, you have been matched with a girl in Ohio, who has turned you into the lover of all things romantic, including and especially rom-coms. You favour the kind with a near death scene and a last-minute desperate confession of love."

"No! I just like the violent bits. With the guns."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Rob."

"I - okay. Maybe he's a bit right. But that's only because Lucy got me into them. I have to be supportive of her likes and hobbies, don't I?"

John, shrugs. "Fair enough. Hey, I'm going to get drinks. Want anything?"

"Cider?"

"I'm good thanks."

"Shandy, please."

"I'm alright with this."

"Another cider, please."

"Sherlock, what about you?"

"I - I don't know. I've never actually..."

Liam grins. "Aw, he's an alcohol virgin like you, John!"

"So that's why you two were matched."

John sighs. "I told you to stop calling me that. Sherlock, want to come with me to look at the drinks?"

They walk over to the table, away from John's friends. As John gets out the plastic cups and fills them with drinks, Sherlock asks quietly, his eyes fixed on the vast array of drink options. "how did I do?"

"You did perfectly," John replies, shooting a quick smile his way. "They like you."

"Even with everything I said?"

"Yes, even then. It wasn't even that bad, what you said. Why, what were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Liam and Robert didn't look fun to be in a fight with." John has to agree with that, the two of them being well over six feet tall. Most of his bruises come from them two tackling him in training alone. 

"They wouldn't fight you."

Sherlock shrugs, deciding on lemonade and pouring it into his cup. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I know. But I told you, they're really, really, nice. Besides, you think things have gone well so far, haven't they."

"I still have all my teeth, so I suppose so."

"Exactly. Relax." 

"I haven't talked to your parents yet. I don't think it would be a good idea to relax just yet."

"That's true. Do you want to talk to them now?"

They both look over at Mr and Mrs Watson, who are now talking only between themselves in harsh, whispered tones, jabbing fingers accusingly at the other - most likely an argument, then. John presses his lips together, suppressing a sigh. Sherlock shook his head. "Later." 

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking."

The night goes on and was mostly spent simply talking - Robert recounting the story of his first visit to America and the disasters which occurred there, Liam telling the story how he broke his leg in rugby, John joining in with the story about his collarbone. Samantha launching into a long rant about her favourite author - mostly alcohol induced, but Amy clings onto every word and listens as though it is gospel - Sherlock showing off and deducing other people in the room. No one is particularly bothered about dancing, until the song transitions into a slower one, and as though in a trace, everyone instinctively reaches for their soulmate partner, if they are present. The teenagers in the room take a little longer, murmuring questions to their partner and shrugging, as if they don't have particularly strong feelings on the matter, on wanting to dance with the other for the first time. (Robert simply mutters something about going home and calling Lucy, then leaves after a few quick goodbyes.)

John and Sherlock are no exception.

"Want to?" John asks, tilting his head towards the dance floor. He keeps his tone of voice light, casual, so Sherlock hopefully won't feel pressured. "I mean, everyone else is dancing, and it could be fun."

"It's hardly dancing," Sherlock scoffs, surveying the room. "It's just...swaying while hugging."

"Yes, yes, we all know you're an expert on dancing. But indulge me, yeah?" John moves so he is stood in front of Sherlock, holding out his hand with an easy smile on his face. "Will you do me the honour of hugging-while-swaying with me tonight?"

Sherlock makes a show of considering it, pursing his lips as he tilted his head, then smiles back. "I would be delighted."

Their hands joined, John leads Sherlock to a space in the middle of the floor, kicking out a couple of balloons in his path - _Sherlock was right, there really is barely any room for people here_. They face each other, both discreetly looking around at the other people in the room for guidance - John wants to be at least somewhat adequate for Sherlock, while Sherlock himself has little experience of this kind of dancing- then both reach for the other's waist. They blush and pull away, murmuring apologies, then placing their arms around the other's neck. They pull away again.

"We should probably - ah - assign roles," Sherlock murmurs.

"It's just dancing, not a group science experiment. But you're right. So, I'll be the one leading, then?"

"What? No. You should have your hands around my neck. I'm taller."

"Yeah, but I'm used to having my hands on the other person's waist. I have experience of this, so I should lead."

"Because this oh-so-complicated dance requires experience?"

"Sometimes. Besides, I play rugby and stuff."

"Are you really going to make this a masculinity issue?"

"It kind of already is."

"For god's sake. It's a logic issue. I'm taller, and therefore it will be easier if my hands were _here,_ while your hands are _here._ Now let's dance before the song ends. If your ego can handle it."

"Fine, you're right, you're right." John adjusts his hands, and together they begin to sway. "You don't think my dad will notice, will you?"

"Definitely not. He hasn't even noticed I'm here yet."

Comforted, John does his best to settle the nervous twisting of his stomach, and focuses instead on the comforting weight of Sherlock's hand on him, his body heat bleeding through his shirt, Sherlock's eyes on him, and only him. They sway for the next song, and the next one, and the next one, until the room felt like it was spinning, as though they had been turning. They are pressed closer together now, practically chest to chest as Sherlock's thumb strokes smooth circles into John's skin, a soft caress. 

"Want to go out for some air?"

Sherlock simply nods, and they make their way through the couples, Sherlock following close behind him. The cool air is a relief once they are outside, standing in the dark with their backs to the wall, the music gently thumping behind the walls. 

"I don't regret coming here," Sherlock says quietly.

John snorts. "Thanks."

"I'm serious. I thought it would be awful. But, it wasn't. It was good."

"I'm glad."

"Though, maybe next year, you could try coming around to mine?"

John hesitates. "I don't know. I've always come here..."

"It's nice to break tradition though, isn't it? Come on, think about it." Sherlock takes John's hands in his. "Nowhere to be, no time limits..."

John grins. "Oh yeah?"

"We could spend as long as we want on the sofa..."

"I'm listening."

"No people, no terrible DJing," Sherlock stands closer, his mouth next to John's ear, making him shiver, as he whispers, "No bloody balloons."

John giggles. "You know what? I might just consider it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I love you, and I want to spend time with you. Some alone time would be quite nice. Although we may have to just lie a little bit and tell my parents that we will be under parental supervision and therefore unlikely to set the house on fire or something."

"'Set the house on fire'. Is that what kids are calling it these days?"

John laughs then presses his lips to Sherlock's in a lingering kiss, long and loving and indulgent as he had wanted to the entire evening, no one there but the two of them - until the door opens suddenly, and the boys leap apart, as though the other is on fire. Mrs Watson stands by the door, looking as equally bashful as the two boys.

"Sorry, mum. We were just - "

"Getting fresh air? Yeah, me too." She leans against the wall and takes out a cigarette from her pocket. "It got a bit stifling in there."

"Yeah." There are several moments of awkward silence, with just the sound of Mrs Watson fiddling with her lighter, Sherlock and John stood apart with their lips burning, John's stomach twisting in shame. He clears his throat. "So, we'll be getting back in - "

"I'm sorry for the way we treated you," Mrs Watson speaks, getting it out quickly, as though embarrassed. 

"What?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, and I realised that I needed to apologise. We were out of line with what we said - I know if I had heard your father's parents reject us like that, I would have gone mad."

"Right."

"It will take some getting used to, though. I've brought you up with a certain idea of what your future would be like, and it was heartbreaking when I found out it would be different."

John scoffs bitterly, recalling his optimism on the morning of that day. "I know the feeling."

"However, if you give me time, I will do my best to be the supportive, inclusive parent you need."

"That just sounds like it came out of a book."

She hesitates, before admitting, "It did. A guide for parents of same-sex soulmates. It's very educational."

"You shouldn't need a book to tell you that insulting your child's soulmate, then kicking them out of the house for the night is a crap thing to do."

"I'm trying. I actually picked up a book. Doesn't that say something?"

John rolls his eyes. "I suppose so. Look, we'll be going in - "

"Do you accept my apology?" Mrs Watson's eyes are wide, searching. Harry does the same thing to avoid getting into trouble. John simply shakes his head, unmoved by her attempts at sympathy

"I acknowledge it. It was a shitty thing to do, and you basically quoted a book at me, but at least you're trying. Can I be expecting any reciting from dad?"

Mrs Watson pauses hesitantly, pressing her lips together. "He needs more time. He'll come round."

And there it is, back again - the feeling of betrayal and disappointment and anger flaring up inside him, from when he first came out. He shakes it away - he shouldn't have expected any different, really. Mr Watson was too stubborn in his views to change that quickly. "Got it. See you inside, Mum."

John ushers Sherlock inside, where the hall is, then slams the door behind him. He leans back against the door, confused by how even though he got a damn apology, he didn't feel better in the slightest. He simply felt... tired. "Are you alright?" Sherlock says quietly.

"Yeah. I mean, why shouldn't I be? I should be grateful my mum apologised, right?"

"It wasn't exactly the most considerate apology."

"No, it wasn't." John exhales, then forces a smile. "At least that's another thing we can tick off tonight's to do list: my parents seeing you and not going completely insane."

"That's true."

"But it's progress, isn't it?"

Inside, someone starts counting down already to midnight - sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight... Someone else tells them to 'shut the hell up already.'

"It's almost midnight," John observes dumbly.

"Yes."

"Probably not a good idea to spend midnight angry at my parents and ranting about them, is it?"

"Probably not. But as soon as it's one minute past, you can rant all you want again."

John's lips twitch slightly into a smile. "I'm being stupid, aren't I, by being angry at them."

"Not at all. I'd say you're on the higher ground here." 

Thirty-five, thirty-four, thirty-three...

"C'm'ere."

John holds out his hand and Sherlock steps forward without hesitation, wrapping long arms around him as John rests his forehead on his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're here, Sherlock. I don't know what I would have done if I had to do this alone."

"Of course. Anytime. Though preferably, as little as possible. Once a year is probably more than enough. No offence."

John smiles properly this time. "I love you."

"I love you too."

_Six, five, four, three_

"Happy soulmates day, Sherlock."

"Happy Soulmates day, John."

They kiss as the people cheer in the distance for the end of Soulmates day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I just mash together Christmas, New Years, and Valentines Day into one super-day and add in the concept of Soulmates to make it seem more original? Yes. Yes I did.
> 
> Sorry I took so long to update. Hopefully this was worth the wait.


	36. January 7th 1997

Dear John

You won't read this until you get home tomorrow afternoon. In fact, it seems stupid me writing this down when you're already next to me, in my own bed, sleeping. I entirely blame you for this sudden overwhelming sentimentality making me write when I could easily wake you up and tell you in person. But as you are exhausted (from travel and our activities tonight - I'll let your own memory fill in the blanks) and will try to smother me with a pillow if woken up, I'll stick to writing.

(Come to think of it, I doubt you'd appreciate being woken up at 3am regardless of other factors. But moving on - )

As well as this being my birthday - why you came round to visit - a year ago today, I wrote to you for the very first time. I was sceptical about the soulmate system and had absolutely no faith in it. I wrote about murder, for god's sake, and yet, you still wrote back. Because of that, the day deserves acknowledgement. Both days really - the day that despite my stubborn determination to not let myself be deceived into sentimental attachment, I wrote to a complete stranger, and also the day you wrote back (April 10th) and gave me the tiniest hope that, maybe, I could like and be liked in return. Love didn't even seem a possibility to me then. 

Although I still believe the concept of soulmates and magic books is unexplainable and therefore ridiculous, I want you to know that I think that we are one of the lucky few couples who are completely, undoubtedly, inexorably successfully matched. And for that, John Hamish Watson, I am grateful. 

There, now I have all that sentimental drivel out of my system, I'd appreciate it if you never mention it again.

Love, 

Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, if I get the time and inspiration, this won't be the end of this universe. I would quite like to write about them in university, or John in Afghanistan, or even some Reichenbach related letters. Maybe even a sort of 'non-fiction' thing about the history of the soulmate journals, because honestly, I think about that too much for my own good.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support. Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks mean the world to me. This has been so much fun to write and I hope you've all enjoyed reading it.
> 
> If you want, you can hang out at my tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/221carnationsonthewall)


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